Naomi shuts the trunk with a crisp thunk. “Thriving. Living the dream.”
She walks past him, head high, shoulders squared. If there’s one thing worse than him stealing her sandwiches, it’s him catching her looking small.
And Naomi Piccolo refuses to look small.
As she heads back to the hospital front entrance to find Mila, she throws a glance over her shoulder.
“Appreciate all the help, by the way,” she calls. “Real inspiring stuff.”
She doesn’t wait for a reply.
But she hears it anyway—quiet, almost an afterthought.
“You looked like you didn’t want help.”
She keeps walking. But her jaw tightens.
He isn’t wrong.
And somehow, that’s even more annoying.
CHAPTER 4
GARRETT
Sitting cross-legged on the floor of the tape room, Garrett rests his elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the flat screen. His lucky beanie is pulled low over his ears, and he’s wearing the same black hoodie he’s worn for their last three wins—soft, faded, slightly stretched at the cuffs. He hasn’t washed it since the streak started, and he won’t. Not until it ends.
He’s been staring at game footage of tonight’s opponent, the Syracuse Storm, for forty-seven minutes.
The Storm run the same play off the right boards in three out of four power play shifts. He clocks it on instinct. Pauses the clip. Rewinds. Watches the left winger swing wide like he’s creating space for the point shot. He isn’t.
It’s a decoy. They’re setting up the backdoor tip.
“Storm’s telegraphing again,” he mutters.
Next to him, Jesse grunts in agreement and makes a note on his phone.
This is why he likes Jesse. The kid talks far too much—yes. But he doesn’t interrupt. And more importantly, he respects the ritualof game days. Quiet analysis in the tape room with no distractions or bullshit.
Carter is here too. Unfortunately.
He’s draped across an armchair, flipping a puck between his fingers with a lazy arrogance that sets Garrett’s teeth on edge. The Whalers have attempted to make their tape room comfortable but can’t quite disguise their minor-league budget. There’s a smart TV mounted to the far wall, a battered whiteboard beside it peppered with color-coded magnets denoting line combos and matchups.
Carter isn’t watching. Garrett would bet half his salary the guy’s never studied tape in his life. He probably absorbs strategy through sheer force of ego. Vibes-based learning or some shit.
Carter messed with his locker last week, switching out his matcha packets for powdered ranch dressing. Garrett didn’t catch it until he’d already made a cup and taken a full swallow of hot ranch water.
Asshole.
Jesse rewinds the clip again, squinting. “They’re leaving their slot open too. If you get a rebound, it’s there.”
He nods once. Jesse gets it.
Garrett hears her before he sees her.
Clicking heels, like punctuation marks hitting the end of every sentence. Or maybe warning bells. Either way, he knows it’s her.
The redhead from the sandwich shop is outside the media room. A pen stuck in her bun. Her voice is brisk as she speaks with the man she always seems to be organizing things with—short and middle-aged with a potbelly, forgettable. Garrett doesn’t know his name. He doesn’t care to. The man has big clipboard energy with no clipboard.
