“It ended up in rotation mid-game,” he continues, ignoring her. “We’ve won three straight with it since. Two shutouts. It’s my lucky stick now.”
“Okay, so what? Congrats on the magic stick, I guess.”
“Don’t you see?” he scoffs. “I need you to do it again.”
“Why? You already have a magic stick.”
“Sticks don’t last forever,” he says tightly. “The flex degrades. They get chipped. This blade is already losing its pop.”
“Why do you think it’s because I touched it?” she asks, flopping back onto her couch. “Maybe you’re just an excellent goalie.”
His next words come out clipped, like this conversation is causing him physical pain. “Because I haven’t changed anything else. I’ve kept everything the same.”
He exhales slowly, then adds in a low voice, “I know it’s the stick. I can’t explain it, but I know.”
Her lips twitch with the effort not to laugh. His level of superstition is… honestly kind of impressive.
Okay, goalie man,she thinks.Let’s get weird.
“But how do you know your lucky stick is the oneItouched?” she counters. “There were like fifteen, twenty sticks lined up in that hallway. It was a whole tree farm.”
“Sticks aren’t made of wood anymore?—”
He stops himself. She can almost hear the sound of him dragging a hand down his face.
“Why am I explaining this to you?” he mutters.
“I have no idea,” Naomi says cheerfully. “It seems inefficient.”
He’s annoyed. She’s amused. A dangerous combination.
“I know because I number them,” he grits out. “Under the tape.”
Her head tilts. “You…number them?”
“That’s how I track rotation and performance metrics,” he says, like it’s obvious. His irritation hums through the phone. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh, believe me, I’m starting to.”
Naomi presses the heel of her hand to her forehead, shaking her head in disbelief.
“God. You’re serious. You want me to bless your hockey stick like a tiny Italian pope?”
“I’m not calling for fun, Smalls.”
“You’ve officially reached new levels of neurotic, Stretch.”
“Don’t call me that,” he snaps.
“Sorry,” she says automatically. Not because she feels particularly apologetic towards the chronically grumpy goalie, but because middle child instincts are a hell of a drug. She’s been apologizing for things that aren’t her fault since before puberty.
A beat passes. Naomi chews the inside of her cheek and glances around her messy one-bedroom, as if her leaning towers of shoes and mismatched throw pillows are going to offer sage advice.
“I need you to recreate whatever the hell you did,” he says finally. There’s another pause, then to her complete shock, he adds a suffering, reluctant, “Please.”
Naomi nearly drops her phone. Garrett Tall just said please. Like a real human man.
She pinches the bridge of her nose, trying not to sound as stunned as she feels. “You’re serious.”
