Naomi wrinkles her nose. “Ugh. Has anyone here ever met a bottle of Febreze?”
Tall glances over his shoulder, unimpressed. “Smells like winning.”
She eyes the gear pile again. “This place needs a cleansing fire.”
“There are blowtorches over there,” he says, nodding toward the far wall. “They’re usually for curving stick blades. But go off.”
She peels off her mittens and shoves them into her bag. “Alright,” she says, rubbing her hands together for warmth. “Let’s get this over with.”
He doesn’t look at her. Doesn’t move. Just leans back against the counter, eyes on the floor.
“I wasn’t planning to make it a hangout,” he mutters, voice flat.
Heat rises in her cheeks as she blinks, caught off guard by his gruffness.
Oh, okay.
Guess he forgot who summoned whom.
She squares her shoulders. “Wow. Youdorealize you’re the onewho asked me to come down here and give your stick a handy, right? I sacrificed my lunch break for you, and I don’t think my toes will ever recover. You could at least pretend to be house-trained.”
She crosses her arms and stares at him, daring him to say something else stupid.
Tall winces, dragging a hand down his stubbled jaw like he’s trying to scrub the words off his face. “That’s not what I—” He cuts himself off, jaw twitching, then exhales through his nose like an apology physically hurts. “I’m sorry, I just meant…I didn’t think you’d want to hang out. Or whatever.”
Naomi blinks again, slower this time.
His voice is still rough, but the edge has dulled. His posture's all wrong—shoulders bunched up like he's bracing for a hit, jaw clenched so tight it looks like it might crack. One hand grips the counter like he's holding himself back, and he still won't meet her eyes.
She softens a fraction. Not enough to let him off the hook—God no, this guy is basically a skyscraper with the personality of a winter parking ticket.
But now that she’s really looking at him, she can feel the tension wound around him like tightly pulled ropes. The pressure he’s under must be brutal—she can see it in every line of his body.
Naomi exhales and breaks the silence, deciding to throw him a bone. “Alright, goalie boy. Where’s the soon-to-be-lucky stick?”
Tall nods toward a rack and pulls one out with a fresh tape job, the blade still pristine. He holds it for a second, as if he’s debating something, then finally offers it to her.
She reaches for it, but before her fingers graze the shaft, he stops her with a quiet, “Wait.”
She glances up, brows raised. “Seriously?”
He shifts his weight, clearly uncomfortable. His voice is low. “It has to be the same. Like in Hartford. The same way you did it before.”
Naomi stares at him for a beat. “You want…what? The exact hand placement? Should I recreate the weather too?”
He doesn’t answer. Just tips his head toward the hallway. “Come on.”
She follows, resisting the urge to check her phone. They walk in silence, her boots echoing softly on the concrete, until they reach the long corridor that leads directly to the ice.
The scent shifts as they get closer. It’s a sharp, almost metallic tang mixed with the chilly dampness of the refrigerated air. Naomi sees a few players loitering near the end, stretching, half-dressed in gear. Jesse is among them. He catches sight of her, eyes lit up in curiosity, but just lifts a hand in a lazy wave.
Naomi gives a quick, awkward nod, suddenly aware of how weird this all must look.
Tall veers off to the side wall, props the stick upright, and steps back.
Naomi raises a brow. “Okay, ritual stick placement. Sure.”
She picks it up, trying to remember how she held it that night in Hartford. It’s cool and light in her hands as she shifts her grip. She turns to him, unable to resist. “You want me to whisper sweet nothings to it too? Maybe light a candle?”
