“Is this poison?” she’d called after him, lifting the cup with suspicion.
“Please,” he’d said without missing a beat, walking backward toward the tunnel, a sardonic smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “You’d haunt me out of spite.”
“I absolutely would,” she’d called after him.
Now she watches him on the ice, eyes narrowed, wondering if he’s playing with the stick she “blessed” this afternoon—before the freezing rain, before everything went sideways.
Anthony curses as the Marlies miss another scoring chance. Her brother grumbles about the Leafs by proxy, having been wronged by another Toronto sports franchise. He’s thirty, married, baby on the way, and still emotionally chained to the Toronto Maple Leafs like it’s a toxic relationship he refuses to leave.
Ask how they’re doing and she gets the same answer every time: “Don’t.”
On the ice, there’s a sudden shift in energy. The crowd rises slightly as a Marlies forward tears down the rink on a breakaway.
He dekes left, fast and fluid—but Tall’s already in motion.
Skating out past the crease like a predator out of its cage, he crouches low and snaps his stick out. The puck ricochets off the blade and clatters harmlessly into the boards.
The Marlies forward stumbles. The crowd groans. The chance is gone.
Naomi blinks. “Is he…allowed to do that?”
Beside her, Anthony lets out a low whistle. “Yup. That was a poke check.”
She arches a brow.
“It’s legal,” he adds, grinning. “Risky, but legal. You gotta time it just right or you look like an idiot flopping out of the crease. But when this guy does it…” He trails off with an appreciative shake of his head. “It’s mean. Beautifully mean.”
Naomi squints back down at the ice.
Tall stands motionless now, watching the play reset, chest heaving behind his pads. The guy he just undressed skates away muttering. Another forward says something chirpy near the crease—and Tall doesn’t react. He stares straight ahead like a statue forged out of grumpiness.
Anthony chuckles. “He gets under their skin. Real quiet like. Doesn’t even have to say much.”
Naomi hums. “Sounds familiar.”
He pokes people. Disarms them. Throws them off-balance with nothing but a deadpan stare and a flick of his stick.
On and off the ice.
She watches him skate backward toward his net, calm and contained again, like he didn’t just ruin someone’s night.
God help her, she finds it...hot.
Naomi crosses her arms, like that’ll keep the flush from creepingup her neck. She really needs to stop watching this man play hockey.
Anthony raises a brow, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Since when do you care what the goalie’s doing?”
Naomi shrugs, sipping her tea. “I’m just making conversation. You’re the sports guy.”
But her pounding heart betrays her, drumming an annoyingly honest rhythm.
Because she’s definitely not watching Garrett Tall too closely. Not at all. She’s simply…evaluating the efficacy of his lucky stick.
She eyes the crease as Tall drops into another smooth butterfly save.
Beside her, Anthony leans back in his seat, stretching out his legs and cracking his knuckles. “He’s good,” he says, nodding at the net. “Real good. I remember reading about him last season—he got called up to the NHL for a few games but totally imploded. Like, actual meltdown.”
Naomi glances over. “Meltdown how?”
