He tells himself to keep watching the tape. No distractions on game day. He watches a full hour of game tape before every game, minimum. The last time he didn’t, they ate a loss. It’s not luck—it’s routine. And he doesn’t screw with routine.
But his eyes slide toward the crack in the media room door anyway.
“You said you’d confirmed this with ops last week,” she’s saying. “If we have to reroute the kids coming in the medical transport through the side entrance, that needs signage.”
The man shrugs. “Can you handle it? I’ve got a meeting in ten.”
Garrett tilts his head. Watches through the sliver of open door.
She doesn’t answer right away. There’s a tiny hitch in her delicate shoulders—barely noticeable.
Most people would miss it. He doesn’t.
“Yeah,” she says finally. “I’ll handle it.”
Of course she will.
Because no one else will. Not the potbellied manager. Not her responsibility-dodging coworkers.
He saw her setting up banners by herself today. Saw her hauling equipment like the world’s tiniest sherpa at the hospital the day before.
No one notices how much she’s doing.
He should turn back to the screen. He knows that.
It’s game day—no room for drift. Focus is everything. Control. Mental clarity. Stillness before the storm.
He’s built his entire routine around it. Rituals stacked like armor. Same warmup playlist, same stretching sequence. He tapes his stick left to right, always. Drinks one bottle of water, one of electrolyte mix—never more, never less. On off days, he eats the same exact sandwiches from the same spot near his apartment. Doesn’t matter if he’s in the mood for them. That’s not the point.
The point is control. Stability. Focus.
And yet here he is, attention snagged on someone who barely clears the height of a regulation net.
Before Garrett can stop him, Jesse perks up and calls out, “Naomi! Come here! We need a tie-breaker.”
Garrett doesn’t move, but a sharp, cold knot forms in his gut, tightening with each second.
No.
No interruptions during game tape. No idle conversations. No distractions that might smite his focus. Jesse knows this.
But she turns. Smiles. Walks toward the tape room.
She drifts to Jesse’s side next to where Garrett is seated on the floor, planting a hand casually on the back of his chair. She smells of girl shampoo and peppermint. It scrapes the inside of his ribs in a way he does not appreciate.
Garrett doesn’t move. Just clenches his jaw and watches the screen.
“What am I tie-breaking?”
“Backdoor play versus perimeter cycle,” Jesse says, gesturing at two Syracuse forwards frozen on the screen. “Who looks like more of a threat?”
She squints at the image. Tilts her head. “That one. Number 17 looks like he’s about to nail someone’s rebound.”
Jesse grins and turns to Garrett and Carter. “Told you.”
She lifts a palm defensively. “But for the record, I have no idea what I’m talking about. I picked the one who has the most mudery energy.”
Garrett scoffs before he can stop himself. It slips out, audible enough to draw her attention.
