The scoreboard blazes: 2–1 Whalers.
The Whalers players flood the ice, pounding gloves, clapping backs, rapping stick blades against each others’ shins. Jesse slams against the glass near the bench, laughing as a teammate knocks his helmet off and musses his hair.
Naomi exhales, tension finally loosening its grip on her spine. She hadn’t realized how tightly she’d been wound during those last few minutes. How into it she’d gotten. And—more unexpectedly—how proud she feels watching Jesse beam like that, caught in the joy of it all.
Her eyes scan the ice automatically.
And there he is.
Tall doesn’t join the chaos. Just stands near the net for a moment, helmet tipped back, shoulders heaving with slow, measured breaths.
Then—just barely—his mouth twitches. A smile. Small, crooked. Real.
Naomi’s stomach does a stupid, swoopy flip.
Oh damn, she thinks.Not him.
CHAPTER 12
GARRETT
The locker room reeks of sweat and whatever industrial-strength detergent they dump over their gear every night. It’s vaguely lemony and soapy scented, but not strong enough to erase the underlying funk of damp hockey pads and Flea’s revolting, seasons-old jockstrap.
Garrett sits in front of his stall, towel slung around his neck, half-listening as the guys rehash drills and chirp each other across the room. He’s already showered and is mentally timeboxing his recovery routine: foam roll, protein shake, ice bath, maybe a nap.
Across from him, Jesse’s trying to tape his stick and keep up with three different conversations at once, which is…ambitious for him.
“Yo, Tall,” Jesse says, not looking up, “you got a tux yet for Thursday?”
Garrett raises an eyebrow. “For what?”
“The gala,” Jesse replies, like it should be obvious. “Don’t tell me you’re showing up in your game-day suit.”
“That was the plan.”
“Dude,” Carter pipes up from a few stalls down, shaking hishead. “It’s a black-tie event. There’s gonna be money at this thing. And cameras. You can’t roll in looking like you’re about to fight a parking ticket.”
Garrett leans back, tilts his head toward the ceiling. He can already feel a headache forming. “A suit is a suit.”
Carter makes a strangled sound. “Absolutely not. You need a tux. Think of the optics. Think of the old ladies with rich husbands and time on their hands. One of them might try to adopt you.”
Jesse grins. “Or marry you off to their granddaughter.”
Tilly, ever silent in the corner, chokes on his protein shake
“Exactly, some of us are thinking long term,” Flea chimes in, giving Jesse and Garrett a pointed look. “Not all of us are gonna make the show like you two. Some of us need retirement plans.”
“You gotta show up in style,” Carter says. “I’m talking velvet jacket. Pocket square. Fresh cut. I’m walking in there and leaving with a girl who looks like she drives a Benz she didn’t pay for.”
That gets Garrett’s attention. Just slightly.
Because Naomi will be there.
He hasn’t let himself think about her much. Not really. It’s been three weeks since that frozen afternoon in Toronto. Three weeks since he handed her a matcha and two game tickets like a complete lunatic. Three weeks since he spotted her wild red hair in the stands and pretended not to.
He’d seen her the moment she walked in.
A few rows up, just behind the bench, bundled in a soft-looking scarf and mittens. There’d been a guy next to her and for one dumb, blinding second, Garrett’s stomach had dropped. He’d felt his jaw lock, rage blooming fast and stupid in his chest.
