Chapter 24
NAOMI
Naomi licks buffalo sauce off her thumb and takes a long sip of beer, the bubbles fizzing sharp against the back of her throat. It’s her second, and the buzz is soft and golden at the edges of her brain—just enough to blur the sharp corners of the day.
Jesse’s in the middle of a story about him flirting with a woman at the hotel bar during his call-up with the Cavs—only to discover the next morning that she was, in fact, the team’s new nutritionist.
And she had a full workup of his dietary sins.
Carter’s howling. He’s leaned so far back in his chair it’s a miracle he hasn’t tipped over. “Bro. You tried to wheel team staff?”
“I didn’t know!” Jesse replies, voice pitching higher. “She didn’t say anything! I thought she was like a sexy accountant. She asked me what I was doing in town.”
Naomi raises an eyebrow. “And you said...?”
“I told her I was in town for work,” Jesse says into his beer. He’s blushing so hard it’s impossible not to suspect there’s more to the story than he’s letting on.
Carter smirks. “So lemme get this straight—you shoot your shot, then the next day you’re in your jimmies and she shows up to roast your Pop-Tart addiction ?”
“Something like that,” Jesse mumbles, covering a smile with another sip of beer.
Naomi raises a brow, amused. “Okay, yeah. No. There is definitely more to this story.”
Jesse flushes deeper, ears going red. “It was just a misunderstanding.”
Naomi lets herself smile, really smile. Her stomach still aches, but at least now it’s from laughing.
She had not wanted to come out. She was going to eat sad room service in her hotel bed and stew in self-loathing.
But Jesse had seen her leaving the arena with her eyes suspiciously moist and a stiff upper lip, and declared, bumping her shoulder, that she was coming for dinner with them, no arguments.
And now, despite the absurdly long day, despite the gnawing ache still lodged under her ribs—she’s glad they dragged her out.
Huckleberry’s is packed with locals, sports on the TVs, a server weaving through tables with a tray full of cheap pitchers.
The lighting is low, warm. It smells of fried food and old jokes.
And right now, it’s exactly what she needs: bar food, beer, and two absolute goofballs who won’t stop trying to make her laugh.
Naomi sets her beer down with dramatic finality. “Okay. You want cringe?”
Carter leans in. Jesse’s already grinning, eyes wide like he’s bracing for impact.
“So,” she says, “I went out with this guy I met on Hinge. His profile said he was into fitness, music, and ‘thinking critically.’ Which, turns out, is code for conspiracy theories.”
“Oh no,” Jesse whispers.
“Oh yes,” Naomi says. “We meet at this cute cocktail bar, and within ten minutes he’s explaining how the moon landing was faked, birds aren’t real, and Beyoncé was never pregnant.”
Carter chokes. “He tried to drag Queen B into his nonsense? Jail.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Naomi says. “Then he pulled laminated charts out of his backpack and tried to convince me the earth is actually shaped like a disc. Full-on science fair energy.”
Jesse practically slides under the table. “Not laminated.”
“Laminated,” Naomi confirms, popping a cauliflower wing into her mouth. “And then—then—he leans in all serious and says, ‘Most people aren’t ready for the truth. But you…you seem different.’”
Carter wheezes. “You almost became Mrs. Flat Earth.”
Naomi smirks. “I made it through one drink, faked a work emergency, left, blocked him on everything. Done. Crisis averted.”
“Please tell me he showed up at your office,” Jesse says.
“Worse,” she says. “I walk into the bodega across from my apartment two weeks later to grab oat milk, and there he is behind the register.”
Jesse gasps. Carter slams a hand on the table. “No.”
“Oh yes,” Naomi says. “Flat Earth Dan. Just scanning bananas and looking sus as hell.”
“Did he say anything?” Jesse asks.
Naomi sighs. “He nodded like we were in on some secret together. Then told me that oat milk was compromised by Big Almond.”
Carter is practically crying. “You dated Whole Foods Alex Jones.”
“I went for one drink with him!” Naomi says, hands raised. “And now I have to walk an extra six blocks for hummus because I’m afraid to make eye contact with a man who thinks weather patterns are created by the government.”
She pops another cauliflower wing into her mouth and grins around it.
Jesse nudges Carter, eyes gleaming. “Tell her about Scrapbook Girl.”
Carter groans. “Oh my god. I took this girl out who called herself a puck bunny, and I thought she was joking.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “She was not joking.”
Naomi leans forward, interested. “Define ‘not joking.’”
“She brought a scrapbook.” Carter’s expression is dead serious. “Of hockey players she’s met. She’d circled my picture from the team media day and wrote, ‘Manifested this one!’ in glitter pen.”
Naomi actually chokes on her beer. “Oh my god.”
“She was a sweet girl!” Carter insists, laughing with them. “Just…intense. I faked a phone call halfway through dinner and told her my dog had anxiety.”
Jesse wipes at his mouth, still laughing. “You don’t even have a dog.”
“I panicked! What was I supposed to say—‘Sorry, you scare me a little?’”
Naomi can barely breathe. “You have to admire her hustle.”
“Hey, I’m not above a little puck bunny attention,” Carter says, sipping his beer with a grin. “But at least make me work for it.”
Naomi cackles. “Okay, okay—who’s the biggest flirt on the team?”
“Flea,” they both chorus.
“Followed by the kid over here,” Carter says, nodding at Jesse. “All charm, no brakes.”
Jesse’s face flames. “Bro.”
Naomi raises an eyebrow. “You? Captain Eye Contact?”
Jesse grins sheepishly. “I swear, I’m just trying to be friendly and remember their names half the time. Girls think I’m flirting when I’m literally fighting for my life.”
Carter leans back with a grin. “That’s because you’ve got slutty hair. The flow does all the work.”
Naomi snorts into her glass.
“Okay, so who’s the complete opposite?” she asks. “Like, zero rizz. Negative game.”
“Oh, easy,” Jesse says.
“Tall,” Carter agrees, without missing a beat.
They both go quiet for a second. Naomi catches the shift, and it lands like a chill under her skin.
Walked right into that one.
“He never comes out,” Jesse says, trying to smooth it over with a casual shrug. “Doesn’t hit the bars. Doesn’t hang out with the group much.”
“Never chats with the fans,” Carter adds. “Even the really aggressive ones. It’s like he’s allergic to attention.”
Naomi’s smile falters a little. She busies herself with her glass, but her heart’s already tugging.
She says nothing, but Carter must see something flicker across her face, because his tone softens.
“Hey,” he says, nudging her knee under the table. “It’s not about you.”
Naomi looks up.
“He’s…working through some stuff,” Carter says, his warm brown eyes crinkling with concern. “The guy’s got his demons. You brushed up against one.”
Naomi swallows. She doesn’t trust herself to answer. Just nods and lets the noise of the bar wrap around her again.
They finish their beers, laughter tapering into something easier. Carter mimics one of their coach’s pre-game speeches, and Jesse loses it again, nearly knocking over his glass. Naomi listens, smiling, but quieter now.
When they finally step outside, the cold hits her face like a wake-up call. The street’s quiet, the air crisp, headlights flashing in the distance.
Naomi hugs her coat tighter around herself. She feels different from when the night began. Not fixed. Not fine.
But not unraveling, either.
“Thanks for taking me out,” she says. “Really.”
“Anytime,” Jesse grins, throwing an arm around her shoulders. “Come on, I’ll walk you back to the hotel.”
“No need,” a deep voice cuts in from behind them.
Naomi stops short, her feet refusing to carry her forward as her mind struggles to catch up. Her stomach drops with the nauseating velocity of free fall, from wanting something and fearing it in equal, desperate measure.
She turns—and Tall is there.
Standing in shadow outside the bar’s entrance, like he’s been waiting there in the cold.
His hoodie is zipped up beneath his black coat, shoulders hunched slightly.
His signature gray beanie is pulled low over his messy blond waves, strands escaping at the edges in a way that makes him look younger, more vulnerable.
His hands are shoved into his pockets, and his face is unreadable except for one thing—those stormy blue eyes locked on hers like she’s the only person on the street.
Her breath catches, tangling somewhere in her throat where her snappy comebacks used to live.
He looks like hell. And not because he’s unkempt.
But he’s tense, like every part of him is fraying under the surface.
His cheeks are red from the cold, flushed with it in a way that makes the rest of his face seem paler, more drawn, and his jaw is clenched like he’s holding back every feeling he’s got.
“I can, uh,” he starts, then clears his throat. “I can take you back. If that’s okay.”
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, a tiny tell that betrays his nerves.
She doesn’t look at Jesse or Carter. She doesn’t need to. She nods, because her mouth isn’t ready to cooperate yet.
Jesse squeezes her arm once before following Carter down the block, their shapes melting into the shadows between streetlights.
Naomi stays where she is for a beat, watching Tall like he might disappear if she moves too fast. He doesn’t. He waits.
She walks toward him, one slow step at a time, heart thudding so loud she’s surprised the whole street doesn’t hear it. When she stops in front of him, he looks at her like he’s trying to figure out how to say something.
Instead, he jerks his head toward the parking lot.
“My truck’s this way,” he says.
She follows him, hands buried in her coat pockets, eyes flicking to the back of his neck, the way his shoulders seem even broader under the tension.
When they reach his truck, he unlocks it and opens the passenger side door for her, holding it in silence.
She climbs in, still watching him. “Why’d you come?”
He shrugs, one corner of his mouth tugging into the ghost of a smirk. “Someone vandalized my stick. Figured I should handle them face-to-face.”
Naomi’s breath catches again, this time for a different reason. She’s not sure if it’s the dry humor or the way he’s looking at her—like he’s not ready, but he’s here anyway.
She settles into the leather seat, the door closing with a quiet click beside her.