Chapter 31
NAOMI
Naomi is going to throw up. Or scream. Possibly both.
She’s on the edge of her seat—literally, her bum is halfway off the cushion, legs cramping, heart thudding like it’s trying to break out of her chest and leap onto the ice.
Overtime is three-on-three madness, and no one warned her it would be this insane. Every time the Kraken touch the puck, she flinches. Every time Garrett drops into a butterfly save, she stops breathing.
He looks calm. Unreasonably so. Like an enormous gargoyle guarding the gates to hockey heaven.
Or in this case, a net that’s way too small for his big ass.
Overtime ends with no score, and Naomi is both relieved and a second away from passing out.
She’s not built for this. She’s a marketing girl with strong opinions about fonts, not someone who handles high-stakes professional sports.
The word SHOOTOUT flashes across the jumbotron in giant, bloodthirsty letters. The arena erupts. Naomi, however, sits frozen in place, mouth slightly open, heart galloping, one palm flat over her chest like she can physically keep herself from dying.
On the ice, Garrett skates to the bench, leans in to hear whatever the old guy in the suit is saying—something tactical, probably. Or maybe just “don’t let them score, Big Goalie Man.” Whatever it is, Garrett nods once, taps the boards with his stick, and turns.
He skates back alone, gliding to his crease. The other goalie takes his spot at the opposite end of the ice. They face each other, silent giants in matching cages, waiting to be tested.
The first Kraken player flies down the center of the ice, and Naomi braces for heartbreak. But Garrett stays tall—gets big—bats the puck away with his stick like he’s shooing a fly.
The second shooter fakes high, cuts low—Garrett slides with him, glove out. Denied.
The third guy tries the fancy little backhand move. Garrett doesn’t bite. He stops the puck cleanly and the guy nearly face-plants into the boards.
By the fourth shot, Naomi is holding her breath so hard she’s dizzy. The shooter winds up, snaps off a shot—Glove. Boom. Caught like it’s nothing.
Four saves.
Garrett stands tall in the crease, barely reacting. Like this is just another drill. Just another night.
But Naomi is screaming inside.
Finally, finally, when a Mavericks forward is sent out, he streaks down the ice, drops his shoulder, and rips one top shelf, clean past the Kraken goalie. The red light flashes.
The Mavs win.
The bench empties. Garrett’s mobbed at the crease—teammates crashing into him, thumping his back. He disappears into the crush of bodies. Cheers echo through the arena as the Mavericks celebrate.
Naomi is on her feet, screaming herself hoarse and hoping he can hear her over the roar.
Garrett: Gonna be a while. They want interviews and stuff. I can meet you at the hotel.
Naomi: Absolutely not. I am sticking around for your famous ass.
She hits send—and immediately cringes. Perfect. If that was his polite brush-off, she just answered like a woman who has absolutely zero chill. Negative chill. Subterranean levels of chill.
The arena is mostly deserted—save for a few staff cleaning up, the distant hum of the Zamboni circling the ice. Naomi’s sitting in the front row, jacket zipped to her chin, cradling a tea that’s long gone lukewarm.
She’s mid-self-flagellation when movement catches her eye and a tall figure emerges from the tunnel.
Oh, hello.
Garrett's hair is still damp from the post-game shower, one rebellious dark blond curl flopping forward. She eyes him appreciatively. His tie is loosened, his suit fitting like it was made to be ripped off. His expression is serious, intense, like he’s still coming down from Game Mode.
For one stupid second, she wonders if this was a mistake—if she should’ve taken the out he offered, because maybe he doesn’t actually want her here. Maybe she’s overstaying. Overthinking. Over-everything.
But she lifts her chin anyway. “Well. That was terrible,” she calls out.
He stops short. Blinks. Then his lips twitch with the barest of smirks.
“I mean really,” she continues, rising from her seat and sauntering toward him. “Only stopped four out of four in the shootout? You should be embarrassed.”
He gives her a dry look. The one that makes her toes curl. “Shut up.”
She reaches him, sliding her arms around his middle, fitting herself against him like he was sculpted for this exact purpose. His arms come around her instantly, pulling her in tighter. She feels the long sigh leave his chest—feels it like a whole-body exhale.
“I’m glad you stayed,” he murmurs, voice low against her hair.
Naomi’s heart soars, and she grins into his chest. “Because of my magic vagina?”
He pulls back to look at her, expression deadpan. “Absolutely. That and your charming humility.”
She gasps and smacks his chest, which makes his smirk grow one whole millimeter—basically a full grin for him.
They walk out through the side doors toward the players’ lot, the night air crisp against her cheeks. The inside of his truck is warm and dim and feels a little too intimate for two people who are pretending this is casual.
Garrett rests one hand on the wheel, the other on the gearshift, but doesn't put it in gear. His jaw ticks. His throat works, Adam's apple bobbing as he struggles to speak.
“They’re taking me on the road trip,” he says finally. “I leave tomorrow.”
Naomi’s stomach dips—but not in the way she thought it might. Not with sadness, but with pride. A warm, stupid swell rises in her chest, and she really wishes she could calm the hell down. He earned this. He deserves every second.
“That’s amazing,” she says, smiling as she turns fully toward him.
Garrett exhales, his jaw loosening, the tight line of his mouth softening—like he'd been bracing for her to wilt or pout.
“I thought you might be…I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Put out.”
“I’m not,” she says instantly. Too fast, probably. “I’m really, really not.”
His hand is on the wheel, tense, tendons tight, and she hesitates a second before resting her fingers on his, stroking across his knuckles. The gesture feels small but massive.
She clears her throat. “I, uh…thought maybe you’d be put out. That I’m here. On your big night.”
For a heartbeat, his expression doesn’t move. Then a flicker of warmth spreads across his stormy, deadpan exterior—quick, startled, like she’s said something he didn’t see coming.
He turns his hand under hers, threading their fingers together with a certainty that steals the air from her lungs.
“I’m happy you’re here,” he says. “Wouldn’t want anyone else.”
Before she can come up with a joke to deflect the sudden, overwhelming ache in her chest, he reaches over with his free hand and taps her knee, expression sliding back into familiar, deadpan territory.
“Don’t make it weird,” he says.
She snorts. “You’ve got my whole playbook memorized, huh?”
“Yup.” Garrett’s throat works as he swallows. “I want to keep seeing you. Only you,” he says. His voice is quieter now, tentative in a way she’s rarely heard it. “If you’re not already running for the hills.”
She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she unbuckles her seatbelt and leans in, steadying herself with a hand on the console as she brushes her lips along the rough edge of his jaw.
He smells like shower-warm skin and that woodsy cedar cologne she’s started associating with trouble, threaded with the lingering scent of eau de hockey.
“I’m not running,” she murmurs against his cheek, lips skimming the soft place beneath his ear. “Not unless you want to chase me.”
He turns and fastens his mouth to hers.
The kiss starts deep—no testing, no hesitation—just the warm, firm press of his lips parting hers and claiming space.
Heat pours through her in a slow, consuming wave as his tongue brushes hers then slides deeper, coaxing her open, kissing her with a filthy, desperate hunger that has her melting into his mouth, chasing every languid stroke.
She tries to shift closer, but the height difference is an immediate challenge; she’s stretched awkwardly over the console, rising on her knees, fingers curling around his neck for leverage.
Garrett makes a soft sound, and, without breaking the kiss, he snakes a hand around her waist, palm warm and sure.
The world tilts as he hauls her up, guiding her across the console and into his lap.
She lands against him with a bitten-off gasp, the hard press of him beneath her sending a hot rush straight between her legs.
Her hands clutch at his shoulders, fingers digging into the crisp fabric of his suit as he takes her mouth again.
He tastes like mint cut with the faint bitterness of post-game coffee, something familiar and utterly male, and she can’t get enough. She parts her lips wider, inviting him deeper, taking more, wanting more, until breathing becomes secondary.
She shifts in his lap, her knees bracketing his hips, the angle changing everything.
She swirls her hips, dragging herself over the thick, pulsing length beneath his slacks.
His breath stutters against her lips, and she feels the firm pull of his arm tightening around her, holding her as though he can’t bear the idea of her slipping even an inch away.
She does it again, slower this time, and the quiet, strangled noise he makes sends a sharp ripple of pleasure through her.
“Naomi,” he growls against her lips, but it’s not a warning. It’s a plea.
Her smile curves against his mouth. They’re both too far gone to care about the dim parking lot, about anyone who might wander by. It’s just the heat of his hands gripping her hips, the hard line of him under her.
When they finally break apart, it’s not clean.
It’s ragged, with panting breaths brushing each other’s lips, mouths still so close they almost fall back into another kiss without meaning to.
Naomi’s chest rises against his, her breasts flush to the firm lines of his torso, the contact sending a fresh wave of want through her so intense she has to bite back a sound.
“Too many clothes,” he pants, pressing his forehead to hers.
Her voice barely makes it out, breathless and pitched with need. “Hotel?”
Garrett doesn’t answer—he acts. He lifts her, guiding her back into her seat with greedy hands that grip her waist, her ass, her thighs much longer than necessary. The moment her seatbelt clicks, he shifts into drive, jaw tight, breathing hard, looking every bit a man on the edge.
Naomi, breathless and aching, can’t stop smiling. She feels winded, lit from the inside out.
As the city lights slide past the windows, she can’t help herself—she talks. She talks because all the heat and nerves have turned into a fizzy, post-kiss high that has her practically vibrating. She tells him every moment of the game she loved, reenacting his epic glove save with dramatic flair.
Garrett doesn’t say much—just makes growly, sexy sounds of amusement, or shoots her a sideways look that feels like a touch. But he’s listening. Every word. Every ridiculous bit.
Somewhere between the arena and the hotel, the tension transforms, like two puzzle pieces clicking flush. Naomi feels it in the way his hand drifts to her thigh at a red light, her heart kicking up when he starts to draw slow, sensual circles with his long fingers.
By the time they step into the hotel elevator, Naomi is one spilled emotion away from doing a full body happy dance. She leans back against the mirrored wall, trying—and failing—to pretend she isn’t bursting at the seams.
“So,” she says casually, because she’s incapable of not poking the bear, “you probably need your rest. Big-boy hockey stuff tomorrow.”
Garrett doesn’t blink. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t even dignify her nonsense.
He steps into her space, grabs her hips, and pulls her up into a kiss that wipes out every coherent quip she has planned.
It’s deep and immediate, his mouth hot and sure on hers, his body pressed fully to hers as though the ten seconds of elevator ride might kill him if he doesn’t touch her properly.
Her toes curl in her boots.
He breaks only enough to breathe against her mouthy. “Not a chance.”
Naomi’s heart flips, swells, downright sings. And when the elevator doors slide open, they step out hand in hand—his idea, she’s pretty sure, because he doesn’t let go.