Chapter 22
NAOMI
The final lighting rig clicks off, and the sudden quiet makes Naomi realize how exhausted she is after the long shoot.
She crosses her arms, watching Duchovny peel off his goalie mask and undo his massive leg pads.
“Nice work today,” she says automatically, laptop tucked to her chest.
He grins like he just made a glove save in overtime. “Thanks! Hope it looked okay.”
“It looked great.”
It didn’t.
Duchovny had been…fine. Bland as cardboard. Stiff as a tax auditor at a rave. Every frame screamed rookie who recently got media training. The lines she’d written—the ones meant for Tall’s gritty intensity, the ones she’d imagined in his gravelly voice—had fallen flat, all the punch gone.
Naomi’s smiling, nodding, pretending not to feel the sting of disappointment she’s been swallowing since Glen told her this morning that Tall opted out. She’d worked her ass off today—coaxing, praising, troubleshooting. Now that it’s over, it feels like an ending without a payoff.
“Naomi!”
Jesse and Carter are lingering next to a stack of equipment cases, out of their gear, laughing about something. Both of them were excellent in front of the camera—exuding an easy charm she wishes she could bottle and sell to the rest of the roster.
“Tell me we nailed that,” Carter says, grinning.
“You nailed that,” she admits. “Both of you.”
“Hell yeah,” Jesse says, giving Carter a fist bump. “You coming to Huck’s with us?”
She blinks. “Huck’s?”
“Yeah, we’re grabbing food. Maybe a couple drinks,” Carter says. “It’s early. You should come.”
It’s not early. It’s almost eight.
Technically, she could go. The flight times back to Toronto were trash, so she’d gotten Mila to approve the expense of one more night at the hotel. Friends in high places and all that.
Her chest tightens. “I don’t know,” she says, fussing with the sleeve of her sweater. “Long day.”
Carter waggles his brows. “I’ll get Tall to come. That’ll change your mind.”
Her head snaps up before she can stop it. “Tall’s still here?”
Carter looks at her like she’s asked whether ice is cold. “Yeah. Didn’t you know? He’s rehabbing a sore knee.”
Naomi’s pulse stutters. “He’s here—like, here here?”
Jesse nods, reaching for his water bottle. “Yeah. He’s icing down right now, I think.”
For a second, all Naomi can do is stare at him. Her jaw sets; her fingers tighten around her laptop until the corner digs into her palm.
He’s here.
Not gone. Not off somewhere “keeping his focus tight.”
He’s here—avoiding her.
The ache under her ribs transforms into fury, threaded with humiliation.
“Where?” she asks, proud of herself for keeping her voice level.
“One of the rehab rooms, I think,” Jesse says, but she’s already turning toward the hallway, pulse thrumming.
Naomi shoves open the door to the room Jesse indicated with more force than necessary, the heavy latch clanging against the wall.
There are several massage tables, what looks like a doctor’s exam table covered in paper, and in the corner, a waist-high metal tub full of ice—literal ice—and a shirtless wall of muscle and irritation.
She immediately forgets every angry word she had rehearsed as she stomped down the hallway. For a solid three seconds, she stands there like an idiot, trying to reconcile what she’s seeing.
Chunks of ice float against Tall’s chest and shoulders, glistening under the harsh fluorescents.
His skin is flushed in places, pale in others, the color difference striking against the black ink curling up both arms. She’s seen glimpses before—tattoos peeking out from under sleeves, the shadow of one near his collarbone—but never like this.
Now they’re all there, unapologetic and bold.
Her mouth goes dry. “What—” she gestures helplessly, “what the hell are you doing?”
“Recovering,” he says flatly. His voice is a low rasp, the kind that vibrates somewhere deep in her stomach.
“When Jesse said icing down, I thought he meant with ice packs!” she blurts, stepping closer. The tub looks miserable—like a punishment for naughty hockey players who refused to admit they were injured and needed to sit their muscled asses down. “Why would you do this to yourself?”
He gives a humorless huff, the corner of his mouth twitching into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Because it’s cheaper than therapy.”
She blinks. “That’s not funny.”
“Didn’t say it was.” His gaze flicks past her, already dismissive. “You shouldn’t be in here.”
He’s got that locked-up expression again—tight jaw, clenched fists, a storm brewing behind his eyes. Not annoyed that she’s broken some unspoken rule by being in the locker room, but seething in a way that makes her chest tighten, because she knows—knows—she’s part of the reason.
“Too bad,” she says, squaring her shoulders. “You can add uninvited guests to your list of things that ruin your focus.”
“Add yourself twice. For emphasis.”
Naomi pauses—then feels the corner of her mouth twitch. There it is. That dry, biting Tall humor she’s been trying not to miss. He might be angry, but if he’s still insulting her, she hasn’t lost all her leverage.
Maybe it’s not too late to make things right.
“I missed you at the shoot today.”
Tall exhales, long and deliberate, like he’s counting to ten. “I’m not a prop for your ad campaign.”
“That’s not why I’m here,” she says sharply. “And you know it.”
The words hang there, clouding the air between them. Her pulse hammers in her ears, the silence thick except for the faint crackle of melting ice.
He shifts, leaning his head back against the rim of the tub, closing his eyes like he can block her out by shutting out the world.
“I have to be in here for six more minutes,” he mutters. “I’d like them to be in peace.”
Her patience snaps, a thread pulled too tight.
“Too bad,” she says, spotting a metal stool near the wall.
She drags it across the floor, the scrape loud enough to make him flinch, and plants it right next to the tub, plopping down with stubborn finality.
Her knees brush the edge of the ice bath, the cold air licking at her skin.
If he’s determined to freeze her out, then fine—she’ll get frostbite with him.
The room smells of antiseptic and cold metal, the hum of the fluorescent lights the only sound between them.
Tall doesn't look at her. His shoulders stay rigid above the waterline, jaw locked, expression carved into a mask so still it's almost inhuman.
But underneath that stillness—just beneath it—she sees it.
The exhaustion. The bruised pride. The hurt that he's trying to keep underwater with the rest of him.
Naomi exhales, arms folding tight across her chest. “Okay,” she says finally, voice breaking the quiet. “So, full disclosure—I’m not great at this. Feelings, talking, all that crap. I tend to…make jokes or spiral into panic instead. In case, you know, you hadn’t noticed.”
No reaction. Not even a twitch. He keeps his eyes pinned to the far wall like she’s an echo he can outwait.
“I just—” she swallows, gaze dropping to the churning water between them because looking directly at him makes her chest pinch, “I don’t want you thinking that night didn’t matter to me.
Because it did. It scared the shit out of me, so I acted like it didn’t.
I play everything off. It’s—” her throat tightens, “it’s what I do. ”
Her words drift into the cold air and freeze there, unanswered, hovering like a fog.
“Because why would someone like you want me? I’m nothing,” she admits, softer now. “So when you—when we—” she stumbles, cheeks heating, “I don’t know, I thought maybe it meant something. And then you disappeared, and I felt stupid for—”
“Can you not?”
The words slice clean through her rambling. His tone is sharp, not raised, but final in a way that stings worse than shouting.
Naomi stops mid-breath. “What?”
He finally looks at her. And the coldness in his eyes isn’t anger—it’s protection. Fortress-thick, desperate protection.
“I don’t want to do this,” he says. “Whatever this is.”
Her chest knits tight. “Tall—”
He cuts her off again, faster this time, like he’s shutting a door before she can wedge her foot in. “We fooled around in a closet. It doesn’t need a sequel.”
For a second, she forgets how to take in air. The words shouldn’t hurt this much, but they do—mostly because they’re meant to. He’s doing it on purpose. She knows it. The flicker in his eyes gives him away—a flash of anguish, visible just long enough before he turns away again.
Naomi’s throat burns. She should leave. She knows she should. But instead, her voice comes out small and raw. “Why are you really mad?”
Tall stares at the opposite wall, shoulders tense, water rippling around him.
She leans forward, anger seeping through the hurt. “Because I pulled away—” her voice catches, “or because you care?”
That gets him. He finally breaks—his eyes snapping to hers, lit with fierce, wounded heat.
“You don’t get to do that,” he snarls. “You don’t get to wreck me and then act surprised I stayed wrecked.”
Naomi goes completely still.
The snark dies in her throat, because she realizes he means it. There’s no smugness in his voice. No dry bite. Just hurt—raw and stripped down and shoved between clenched teeth because he’d rather be angry than exposed.
The shock is like a splash of ice water.
He was wrecked. This giant, impervious warrior of a man was hurt by her stupid, cavalier attitude. By her inability to express anything without sarcasm.
She’d told herself he didn’t care and hid behind her shitty attitude like armor. She’d convinced herself he was indifferent, because that was easier than confronting the fact that she made him feel something real—and then ran from it.
Her eyes sting. “I fucked up,” she whispers. “And I’m sorry.”
He leans his head back, eyelids lowering, breath shaky despite his attempt to make it sound even. Water runs in slow drips down his chest.
“Just go,” he says finally. “I don’t need the distraction.”
Naomi waits. One beat. Two. Three.
Hoping, hating that she’s hoping.
But the silence only stretches.
She swallows hard and stands, her legs unsteady.
“Right.”
The stool screeches again as she pushes it back; he flinches. Then she walks out before he can see how much she’s shaking.
Blinking back tears, she speed-walks through the empty dressing room, passing the stalls one by one until she stops short at the one on the end. His.
His scent—soap and sweat and something warm and woodsy beneath it.
His gear hangs with the same neat, controlled precision he applies to his emotions.
She sees his goalie helmet tucked on top and a spare hoodie hanging, sleeves folded over themselves like a pair of waiting arms. And there—leaning in the corner—is one of his sticks.
Not one of the ones she touched before. A new pristine one, with fresh white tape unmarked by pucks he’s stopped.
Her breath shudders out of her.
She should leave. She should let it go. Walk out with whatever dignity she has left.
But the thought of doing that—of letting him think she didn’t care enough to stay, didn’t care enough to fight—scrapes down her spine, raw and intolerable.
He hurt her, yes.
But she hurt him too.
And running now would just make the wound she created gape so wide it would never be mended.
The goalie stick is cold in her grip, heavier than she remembered, and the weight steadies her in a way her breathing doesn’t.
She stares down at it, pulse racing, an internal war waging behind her ribs—walk away, don’t make it worse, you’ve done enough damage—but the other voice, the louder one, the reckless dumb one, says absolutely not.
She spots a Sharpie on the counter, snatches it up, and pops the cap off with a sharp click that feels like a decision locking into place.
Fine. If the superstitious giant wants distance, he can have it. But he isn’t getting the final say.
She lowers the tip of the marker to the pale blade and writes in slow, careful strokes that bleed into the tape.
Because if he finds this—and he will—it won’t let him pretend she didn’t care. It won’t let him pretend she didn’t try.
Her hand stills on the last line.
He doesn’t get the last word.