Chapter 25
GARRETT
The truck is too quiet.
Garrett’s hands stay fixed on the steering wheel, knuckles white where they grip the leather, but he hasn’t left the lot. The cab smells of cold, nighttime air. They brought the chill in with them.
He’d watched her laugh with Carter and Jesse through the window for an hour. Lurked there while his internal monologue spiraled into a full dress rehearsal—what he’d say, how he’d say it, where he’d start. How he might explain the mess inside his chest.
Now she’s right here beside him, close enough that he can smell her fruity shampoo, and every damn word has vanished from his brain.
She smells like beer and strawberries and warm vanilla—bright, feminine, and dangerous in the way it makes him want.
He glances over. She’s staring straight ahead, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, that tiny movement enough to short-circuit what’s left of his brain. Her coppery hair spills over her shoulder in waves that catch the glow from the streetlights outside, wild and soft all at once.
He wants to touch it. Wants to slide his hand through the strands to feel their silky texture. Wants to bring a fistful to his nose and breathe it in, reminding himself she’s really here in his space.
Finally, he opens his mouth.
“I’m sorry I was an ass,” he says, voice low.
At the same time, Naomi speaks in a rush.
“Do you want to start over?”
They both go still. Garrett blinks at the windshield. Naomi lets out a soft, embarrassed huff of air and turns fully in her seat toward him.
“You go first,” she says, and her voice is gentle in a way that makes him ache.
Garrett stares out at the quiet street beyond the windshield like it’s holding answers he doesn’t have.
His fingers tap once, twice against the steering wheel before falling still.
Eventually, he lets his hands drop to his thighs, palms up like he’s surrendering.
He shifts in his seat, shoulders tense, jaw tight, like maybe if he clenches hard enough, the words will stay in.
But they don’t.
Don’t fuck this up.
“I’m not…good at this either,” he says finally, voice low, rougher than usual. “Any of it.”
He huffs out a breath, one that barely seems to move the air, then scrubs a hand through his hair under his beanie, unsettling it. “I’ve never really done it before. This…talking stuff. Feeling stuff. Being around someone who makes me feel like—” He cuts himself off, biting the inside of his cheek.
She says nothing. Just watches him, waiting.
And that makes it worse. Or better. He can’t decide.
Garrett shifts again, pulling in a slow breath that feels like it gets stuck halfway down. “Hockey’s always been my focus. It’s been my only focus. I’ve worked my ass off for years trying to block everything else out, because that’s how I stay in control. That’s how I win.”
Finally, he turns his head, meeting her eyes with effort.
“But I didn’t like how I left things with you,” he says quietly. “Didn’t like the way it felt after. Still doesn’t feel right.”
Her face softens. He forces a smirk, a breath of dry air into the heaviness.
“And don’t get me wrong,” he adds, “you’re still annoying. And your handwriting is awful.”
Naomi lets out a surprised laugh, covering her mouth with her hand.
The knot that’s been lodged between his ribs for weeks loosens—but only a little. He doesn’t smile. Not yet. But his pulse has finally stopped trying to punch through his throat.
Naomi’s biting her lip again, the corner of her mouth twitching. “How’d you find me?”
He winces, dragging a hand down his face. “Carter.”
“Of course.”
“Told me to pull my head out of my ass,” Garrett mutters. “Then let slip where you’d be. Guess I listened for once.”
Naomi’s smile turns sly. “So you waited outside Huck’s? Hid in the shadows like a very conspicuous stalker?”
Garrett looks over at her, letting his gaze drag over her face. “Turns out, tattooed men lurking in corners makes people nervous.”
“Can’t imagine why. You’re so friendly.”
He smirks. “Worked though. You’re here.”
She gives him a look—wary, amused, a little breathless—and suddenly the air in the cab feels heavier. Denser.
When she speaks again, her voice is softer. “You really waited that long?”
Garrett shrugs, eyes fixed on the windshield. “I would have waited all night.”
“I stalked you, too,” she blurts, cheeks flushed, eyes shining. “I missed you so much I watched grainy press conference footage just to hear your voice. I was zooming in on blurry highlight reels like some kind of forensic analyst. It was bad.”
That does it.
He turns toward her. Her lips part, chest rising with each breath. Her coat slips off one shoulder, revealing the pale curve of her collarbone. He drinks in the delicate line of her throat, the soft skin he hasn’t stopped thinking about.
His voice is rough. “Say it again.”
She blinks. “Say what?”
“That you missed me.”
She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she leans in, her fingers brushing his arm where it rests on the center console. The contact jolts straight through him, white-hot.
“I missed you, Tall,” she says softly. “I wrote, like, fifty apology texts and deleted every single one because I was too chickenshit to send them.”
His throat works as he swallows. That same ache—inconvenient, completely unstoppable—pushes up through his chest.
“Stop calling me that,” he mutters. “My teammates call me Tall.”
Her brows lift. “What should I call you, then?”
His voice is low. “Garrett. I want to hear you say my name.”
The engine rumbles to life as he starts the truck, but the silence between them vibrates with everything unspoken.
For the first time in weeks, it doesn’t feel like he’s unraveling. It feels like he might finally get somewhere he wants to stay.
He clears his throat. “Bet you wrote that note just to get under my skin,” he says gruffly, grip tightening on the wheel as he turns out of the lot.
She leans closer, her plush, glossy lips close to his ear. “Nope,” she says, popping the ‘p.’ “I wrote it to piss you off.”
His knuckles tighten on the wheel. “You’re a menace.”
Her smile is slow and dangerous. “Guess I’ll have to suffer the consequences.”
His pulse thuds hard in his throat. Christ. He’s not sure he’s ever wanted anyone this badly—with this much weight and heat and ache all tangled up in it. Not just lust. It’s her. Her voice, her brain, her fire. She gets under his skin in ways he can’t explain and doesn’t want to fix.
When he pulls into the hotel lot, the warmth slips.
He shifts the truck into park and kills the engine.
This is it. This is where he walks her in, says good night, and watches her disappear through the sliding doors of the hotel lobby, back into the chaos of her life, her job, the million things he doesn’t belong to. He doesn’t know when he’ll see her again. Doesn’t know if he’ll get this again.
And the thought lodges in his chest like a blade.
He turns to her, ready to say something—anything—but she’s already popping her seatbelt, already reaching for the door.
Then she pauses.
Looks back at him with the same mischievous glint in her eyes that’s been haunting him since the second she walked into his life.
“You coming?”
The door clicks open. She slides out.
And Garrett’s blood roars.