Chapter 28
NAOMI
There’s a man saying her name.
That’s the first thing she registers. A voice—low, coaxing, stupidly gentle—cutting through the molasses-thick haze of sleep.
“Naomi…”
She frowns, eyes still shut, resisting reality like a true champion. Her body is too warm. Her brain too soft. Her muscles liquified. If she were a pancake, she’d be sliding off the griddle, dribbling onto the floor in a slow, satisfied puddle.
“Naomi,” the voice says again, a little closer now.
She groans into the pillow. There’s morning light filtering through unfamiliar curtains, a tangle of hotel sheets wrapped around her bare legs, and the distinct, delicious ache of a night well spent with Garrett.
Her brain does a slow, glitchy reboot.
Garrett.
The memories hit like a film reel on fast-forward: the elevator wall, the headboard (RIP), the shower—holy shit, the shower—where he picked her up like she weighed nothing and pinned her against the tile, solving their whole height difference with one delicious, back-arching thrust.
And then…his body wrapped around hers, spooning her like a man-sized furnace with very grabby hands. Who knew Mr. Brooding Giant had a secret cuddler mode? Honestly, she should’ve seen it coming. No man with arms that big wasn’t going to use them like a weighted blanket.
“Naomi,” the voice says again, softer now.
She finally pries open one eye.
Garrett’s crouched beside the bed, fully dressed—T-shirt snug across his chest, jeans hugging those powerful thighs. She pouts at the presence of his clothes, already missing his abs.
He kneels next to her, one hand brushing her hair off her face like she’s fragile. Like she’s precious. It’s unfair, really. Waking up like this. Blissed-out and boneless, still tasting him on her lips, as he leans in close, smelling like soap and toothpaste.
Meanwhile, she probably looks like a swamp monster and smells like whatever the hell her mouth was doing last night. And she’d really committed to that mouth work.
“Morning,” he murmurs, lips twitching. “You alive?”
Naomi groans into the pillow but turns her head to smirk at him. “Barely. God, your dick should come with a waiver.”
His mouth twitches. “Not sorry.”
“You should be,” she mutters, stretching like a cat under the covers. “Pretty sure walking down stairs is going to be a nightmare for the foreseeable future."
He laughs, low and warm, but there’s something off about his smile. Not fake—distracted. Tighter around the edges.
She blinks harder, finally sitting up, clutching the sheet to her chest like modesty suddenly matters. “Wait—why are you dressed? What time is it? And you already brushed your teeth? Betrayer.”
He huffs a quiet laugh but doesn’t answer right away. His eyes flick toward the window, then back to her, and that strange expression sharpens.
“I got a call,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh…I have to leave.”
That shakes the sleep straight out of her system. “Leave?” she echoes. “Why?”
He hesitates long enough for her stomach to knot. Then he meets her eyes. “The Mavericks’ goalie went down last night. Pulled a groin muscle. They need a backup on the bench tonight. I’m heading to Brooklyn.”
“Oh my god. Garrett, that’s huge!”
He shrugs. “Probably won’t see the ice.”
She sees through his act instantly.
He’s trying to play it cool. But his knee bounces, restless.
His jaw tightens as if he’s chewing on the what-ifs.
And his eyes…his eyes are bright. Alive.
And for a second, she sees the boy underneath all that brooding quiet and tattoos and muscle.
The kid who dreamed of this exact call. The kid who wanted it so bad it probably hurt.
Naomi beams at him, then sits up straight, slapping his arm playfully. “Wait. Wait. Do you know what this means?”
He grimaces. “That I have to wear a stupid suit and pretend not to sweat through it on national television?”
“No! It means I’m definitely your good luck charm.” She wiggles her brows, grinning like the devil. “Because I touched your stick last night. Thoroughly. Multiple times. You’re welcome.”
He rolls his eyes, but he can’t stop the slow, amused smile from creeping in. “Well, that is why I slept with you,” he deadpans. “To bless my…gear.”
Naomi gasps, hand to her chest. “You absolute trash bag! I feel so used.”
“You can go now.”
“Oh, I will—but I’m telling anyone who will listen that your performance depends entirely on my vagina.”
He laughs deeper now, from somewhere in his chest, rich and unrestrained.
It lifts the edges of his face, carves light into places usually shadowed, and for a moment, he looks completely different—softer, younger, almost reckless with joy.
The sound wraps around her like a second blanket.
She wants to hear it again and again. She wants to press it between pages like a flower and keep it forever.
Garrett’s still smiling when he glances away for a second, like he’s working something out behind his eyes. Then his fingers curl slightly against the sheet, and when he speaks again, his voice is lower. A little hesitant.
“Would you…” he says, not looking directly at her. “I mean, since it’s Saturday—do you wanna come watch the game?”
Naomi freezes.
Error. Please reboot your flirty sass engine.
She stares at him, completely caught off guard. She expected an “I had a nice time, let’s do this again next time you’re in town.” Maybe a few more dick jokes. Not this.
Because hell yeah, she wants to go. Obviously. Immediately.
But there’s a pit of uncertainty sinking in her stomach.
Garrett’s so serious about his focus—so intentional about keeping his head clear—and the last thing she wants is to mess with that.
And she really doesn’t want him to feel like he has to include her just because she spent the night clawing his back to pieces.
She feels her smile slip before she can stop it.
Garrett notices and immediately backtracks.
“Yeah, never mind,” he says, straightening from beside the bed. “That was dumb. Forget I said anything.”
“No!” she blurts so fast she trips over the word. “No, I—of course I want to. I just…should I? I don’t want to distract you with my magic pussy.”
She forces a laugh, too quick, too light, already hating how fragile she suddenly feels.
Ugh. Being vulnerable sucks.
Garrett meets her eyes, steady in the way he always is when it matters.
“You won’t,” he says simply. “I can’t block out the people in my life. Staying focused is on me. Not you.”
Her heartbeat slows. The swirl of anxiety recedes. Because he means it. It’s not a line, or a guilt-trip, or a romantic leap off a cliff. It’s honesty.
“In that case…” she says, sliding her hand into his, “I’d love to come watch you sit that delicious ass on a bench.”
Garrett smirks, eyes crinkling. “It’s a very athletic kind of sitting.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it. You’ll be the most intimidating benchwarmer in the league.”
She’s going to need something cute to wear.