Naomi blinks. There are at least four sarcastic comebacks loading in her brain like tabs she needs to close. Instead, she forces a smile.
“Um,” she says.
Because no, she does not, in fact, want to spend her precious alone time freezing her ass off watching a bunch of twenty-something adrenaline monsters punch at each other on ice.
But now is not the time to crush this man’s spirit. She needs his help.
Naomi adjusts her scarf and gives Carter a look, equal parts pleading and I-swear-I-don’t-have-time-for-this.
“Seriously though—Tall?” she repeats, checking her phone again like he might have suddenly learned how to text back.
Carter nods toward a hallway branching off from the main corridor. “Equipment room. I’ll take you.”
As she falls into step beside him, she doesn’t check him out. Definitely not. She just becomes aware—in a purely observational, non-horny way—that even in sweaty warm-up gear, he’s objectively hot. Fresh fade, that troublemaker grin, and biceps that honestly deserve their own fan club.
“So what’s the emergency?” he asks.
She snorts, clutching her coat tighter. “No emergency, just a superstition-related errand. I’ll spare you the details.”
“I like details,” he teases, flashing her a sideways glance. “Especially when they involve you and Tall. Didn’t have that on my bingo card.”
"It's not like that," she blurts out, then wishes she'd sounded less frantic. “I’m just…helping him with a weird request. Very professional. Very normal.”
He raises a brow. “So you’re single?”
Naomi falters mid-step. “Um…”
Technically yes. Unless you count being married to her inbox. She considers saying that, but Carter’s still smiling, and she’s not here to flirt, no matter how charming the man is.
They round another corner. Naomi checks the time on her phone again and grimaces. She’s got maybe thirty-five minutes to touch the stupid stick, avoid getting roped into conversation, and hustle back to the office before Richard notices she’s breathing unsupervised.
“Relax,” Carter says. He places a hand on the small of her back. “I’ll protect you, Red. From whatever weird goalie voodoo you got mixed up in.”
He steps a little closer. Naomi feels the heat of his arm near hers and catches a whiff of his musky cologne. It occurs to her that this man would flirt with a houseplant if it somehow made eye contact.
She tilts her head, smirking. “Carter, do you even remember my name?”
He pauses—long enough to confirm she’s nailed him—then his grin widens. Busted. But before he can charm his way out of it, a deep voice cuts in like a slapshot.
“Naomi.”
She freezes.
Tall leans against the equipment room doorway, arms crossed, jaw set in a scowl that could curdle milk. His gray beanie is yanked low over his ears, hoodie worn at the seams but still managing to stretch across his unfairly broad shoulders. There’s a seriousamount of stubble on his jaw, and somehow it just makes him look hotter, in a grumpy lumberjack kind of way.
His stormy gaze cuts between them before locking onto Carter’s hand—still resting on the curve of her back.
Carter drops it like he’s been burned.
“See you around, Naomi,” he says with a wink, already swaggering down the hall.
She turns to Tall, her voice laced with sugary fake sweetness. “Hello to you too.”
He doesn’t respond. Just turns on his heel and disappears back into the equipment room.
She follows, muttering under her breath, “Okay, sure. Let’s skip basic manners.”
Inside, the room is dim and chilly. Racks of sticks line one wall, standing at attention like soldiers. There’s a bench cluttered with skate blades, laces, sweat-stained pads, and gloves that smell like someone fought a war in them.
