Anthony winces. “He was getting lit up, got pulled halfway through the game, and then puked on the bench. Full exorcist moment into a bucket.” He shakes his head. “The headlines were brutal the next day. Said he couldn’t ‘stomach the pressure.’ One paper went extra savage—ran with ‘Stretch Retches.’ Shit like that.”
Naomi’s mouth parts slightly. Her hand tightens around her cup.
A puzzle piece clicks into place.
That’s why he bristles every time someone calls him Stretch. Why the nickname clearly gets under his skin, even if he tries to act above it.
She swallows hard. That sucks.
Tall may be an emotionally constipated grump with a superiority complex, but still. Nobody deserves to have their worst moment broadcast on national TV.
No wonder he’s so tightly wound. So guarded. So allergic to attention.
Before she can dwell on it any further, Anthony nudges her with his elbow. “Don’t feel too bad for him, Nomes. The guy’s on a two-way contract. He’ll get another shot.”
Naomi scrunches her eyebrows. “What does that mean?”
“Means he can get called up to the big league anytime,” Anthony explains. “If someone gets hurt or bombs, he’s next up. His pay changes depending on whether he’s playing in the AHL or the NHL.”
Naomi nods, but a lump forms in her throat that she can't swallow past. She can't stop replaying the look on Tall's face when he told her another goalie had been called up instead of him. He'd looked gutted, like the air had been knocked out of him and he was still pretending to breathe. And that hurt—that helpless, hollow kind of hurt—is a feeling she knows well. Being passed over. Watching someone else get the thing he had bled for.
Her grip stays tight on her cup as she returns her focus to the game.
The Whalers are leading, but the Marlies don’t go down easy.
With two minutes left and the faceoff in the Whalers’ zone, the Marlies’ goalie bolts to the bench. A sixth skater hops the boards in his place.
Naomi blinks, scanning the ice. “Wait, where’d the other goalie go?”
Anthony leans forward, elbows on his knees. “They pulled him. Extra attacker. It’s desperation time.”
“And they just… leave the net wide open?”
“Yep. Risk versus reward.”
Naomi narrows her eyes at the empty crease on the far end. “Feels a little unhinged.”
Anthony grins. “It is. That’s why it’s fun.”
The Marlies take control fast, cycling the puck around, trying to get the best angle for a shot. Whalers scramble to keep up, blocking passing lanes, breaking up plays. The crowd’s volume climbs—a cacophony of stomping feet, shouted names, and groans as the puck zips dangerously close to the crease but gets batted away.
Naomi grips the edge of her seat, tea long forgotten, heart thumping.
Tall tracks every movement with lethal precision. He crouches low, eyes locked on the puck. He lunges for a save and the crowd gasps, the puck pinging off his pad and bouncing into open ice.
Jesse snags it. Clears it.
The seconds tick down.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
The puck winds up back into the Whalers’ zone and another slapshot sails in, but Tall knocks it away with his blocker like it’s nothing. Another shot. Another save. The horn finally blasts through the arena.
Game over.
