“Seriously? I’m about to faint. Make an exception. Please. I’m dying.”
The cashier shrugs, unmoved. It’s happening. Naomi can see it—her last shred of sanity slipping away with those sandwiches.
She rounds on him again. “If you had an iota of human decency, you’d share one.”
“Man’s gotta eat.”
“Besides,” he adds, stepping towards the counter, “you couldn’t handle one of these anyway.”
Her eyes narrow. “What does that even mean?”
“Looks heavy,” he says casually. “Might tip you over.”
Naomi sputters. “Are you kidding me?”
“Not really. Physics.”
She makes a strangled noise, something between a scoff and a growl. She’s seconds from launching herself across the counter when survival instincts kick in and make her take a step back.
“Unbelievable,” she mutters, shaking her head and retreating before she commits an actual crime. “Take them. I hope you choke.”
He gives a solemn nod. “Unlikely. I chew thoroughly.”
Naomi’s jaw drops again. She cannot. She physically cannot.
The sandwiches disappear into a paper bag, and the cashier hands it to the Swindler, oblivious to Naomi’s murdery energy.
He turns toward the door, breezing past her without a single ounce of shame.
Then he glances back with a smirk.
“Have a nice evening.”
CHAPTER 2
NAOMI
The edges of Naomi’s tablet form little crescents in her palm under her tight grip. The entrance to the Whalers’ facility is bedecked with banners of players frozen mid-slapshot, the faint scent of Zamboni exhaust ghosting the air.
It’s been at least ten years since she’s set foot in a hockey arena. The last time, she was dragged there under parental duress, parked on freezing cement bleachers while her two brothers chased the puck around. She remembers being far more invested in the concession-stand nacho cheese staining her fingers than whatever was happening on the ice.
Now’s when her tragic lack of sports knowledge comes back to haunt her.
The Hartford Whalers are a scrappy AHL team affiliated with the Brooklyn Mavericks of the NHL. For some players, the team is a stepping stone—a place to sharpen their skills and chase the dream. For others, it’s where they get sent when they’re slipping. Or when they’re good, but not quite good enough for the big show.
Her heels strike the polished floor in a brisk staccato. Alwaysheels, even when her arches hate her. When you’re barely scraping five-foot-two, flats are an invitation to be overlooked.
She follows Mila inside, dragging her sweaty palms down her trousers. The sad quinoa salad the cashier at Spice World threw together for her out of pity last night has disappeared, leaving nothing but anxiety churning in its place.
This isn’t the office, where she writes email campaigns no one reads and drafts marketing copy that gets stripped down until her voice is unrecognizable. This is real. On-site. The opportunity she’s been desperate for.
And she’ll be damned if she lets joyless, overweening Richard ruin it.
“Try to keep up,” he drawls without looking back.
Ugh. Richard.
He strides a step ahead in a crisp navy suit, blond crew cut, and square jaw. In his late thirties and Hollis’s golden boy in sales, Richard isn’t technically their boss, but that’s never stopped him from acting like it.
