Naomi gives a soft huff that might be a laugh. She looks exhausted. Flushed, if you knew what to look for. Garrett stares straight ahead, not meeting her eyes, but sees her glance at him, lip caught between her teeth.
And for a second—just a second—he wonders if she’s hoping he’ll go too.
He should keep his mouth shut.
But he slices.
“Don’t worry, Short Stack,” he says, tone razor-sharp. “You’re safe. I’ve had enough lapses in judgment for one night.”
There’s a pause, taut and ugly. He doesn’t flinch. He’s exhausted, done with smiling, done with donors, done pretending he’s unaffected. But most all, he’s furious he can’t drag her home and fuck her again and again until he’s scraped her out of his system so thoroughly that he can look her in the eye and saysure, no catching feelings here either.
Her blue eyes flash with surprise, then dismay. He twists the knife anyway.
“You should go, though,” he says, voice flat as concrete. “Carter’ll take good care of you.”
Garrett meant it to sting. He just didn’t expect to be the one bleeding.
He turns before she can answer.
If she’s angry, that’s fine. It’s cleaner than letting her see what’s bruised and broken under his skin.
CHAPTER 19
GARRETT
The rink in Rochester smells like melted rubber and mop water.
Garrett plants himself on the bench in the visitor’s dressing room and stretches his legs out with a grimace. His left knee pops like bubble wrap. His spine protests. The lighting overhead buzzes faintly, casting a pallor over the walls painted an uninspiring shade of oatmeal.
It’s the perfect place to suffer.
He grabs a fresh twig and starts winding tape around it. The operation is meticulous and routine, heel to toe, zero air bubbles, tight wrap. He tunes out the surrounding sounds—Flea humming off-key, Carter arguing with someone about whether a hot dog counts as a sandwich. It’s good. Distracting.
Winter road trips are shit.
Seven days. Four games. Two time zones. One brutal, lumpy team bus.
Exactly what he needs to flush her out of his system.
He yanks the tape tighter than usual, jaw clenching. People think pro hockey is glamorous. That it’s all charter flights andprivate chefs and carpeted dressing rooms with your name etched onto your stall. Sure—if you’re in the NHL. If you’re not?
It’s folding his long legs into a bus seat for hours. It’s shared rooms and living out of a duffle even though they’re expected to wear a suit on game days. It’s waking up in a different hotel every morning and having no idea where the hell the bathroom is when you stumble out of bed.
But at least it keeps his hands busy. His head focused. His brain off...other things.
The stick flexes under his grip.
He adds the last strip of tape to the shaft, smooths it down tight, and scrawls 23 and the date in Sharpie. NHL players get a new stick every game if they want. In the AHL, players have to be more careful, with a set allotment from the team based on ice time, stats, and brand deals.
He had ditched the pair of sticks he had been rotating between on game days—hersticks. Both were seasoned, both had been through wins, losses, shootouts—but if he was honest, mostly wins.
Garrett couldn’t explain why her small hands on his stick that night in Hartford had broken something in his brain. How one accidental touch turned into a superstition. Obsession.
He would’ve done anything to win. Even asked her for help.
But not anymore.
He had tossed those sticks in the discard pile without looking. Doesn’t need them. Doesn’t need her.
