Tilly drops beside him with a thud. “You good?”
Garrett shrugs. “Peachy.”
Tilly snorts, but doesn’t push. Just nods and pulls out his own stick to tape.
Garrett appreciates that about him. No therapy circle bullshit. Just a quiet presence and shared tape.
He misses Jesse.
The kid’s still up in Brooklyn with the Mavericks, living the dream and probably chirping everyone with that stupid grin on his face. He wouldn’t let Garrett stew in silence. Would’ve pesteredhim with a million questions until he either exploded or gave in. And he wouldn’t have stopped smiling the whole time. Annoying little bastard.
He shakes his head and starts taping a second stick.
It’s fine. Everything’s fine. He’s fine.
He doesn’t miss her. He misses his routine. His gear. His game-day order. His focus.
He finishes wrapping the knob and bites off the tape with his teeth, then runs a thumb over the seam to smooth it down. Perfect. Cold. Sharp.
Like he needs to be.
CHAPTER 20
NAOMI
Post-gala ennui hits Naomi hard. She’s back at her cubicle in downtown Toronto, bombarded with soul-destroying deadlines and surrounded by the rhythmic clack of overachievers.
Her inbox is filled with little red flags signifying unactioned action items, mostly from Mila and Glen. They’re deep into logistics for the next Whalers email campaign: ticket packages, promotional countdowns, pre-playoff urgency. She’s building out A/B subject line tests and subtly fighting Glen on tagline choices. It’s not glamorous, but it keeps her mind busy and off otherthings.
In the weeks since the gala, she’s been lightly stalking the Whalers—okay, one Whaler in particular—and it’s gotten a little out of hand. She tells herself it’s just professional curiosity, part of staying on top of client accounts, but it’s become her ritual to check box scores every night before bed.
They’ve been playing well, like actually good. Even the most pessimistic fans and sports commentators are whispering about playoff chances.
But something’s off with Tall. She can see it, even through a screen.
He’s still making saves, still anchoring the crease like a glacier in goalie pads, but he’s letting in more goals than usual. His frustration bleeds through—a clenched jaw, a snapped head tilt toward the rafters, the way he skates off without acknowledging fist bumps or the tap of sticks on his pads.
It’s not catastrophic. Not yet. They’re still winning more than they’re losing.
But something’s off.
And it gnaws at her. Not because of the account, but because she can’t stop thinking about the look on his face at the gala.
It’s all she does now. She works late, stumbles home, then tortures herself with hockey highlights while scarfing takeout in her apartment like a Hobbit.
Outside, the sky is the same color as the concrete sidewalk and her mood: drab.
Naomi stands abruptly and makes a beeline for the office kitchen, pouring herself a coffee from the good pot. She adds too much sugar, then heads down the hall toward Mila’s office.
She knocks once on the open door. “Please tell me you’re still alive.”
Mila glances up from her screen, does a double take, and sets her mug down slowly. She’s in soft wool trousers and a cream turtleneck, her blonde hair twisted into a sleek bun, nary a lipstick smudge or hair out of place in sight.
“I am,” Mila says carefully, brows knitting. “But are you okay? You look like you haven’t seen sunlight in days.”
Naomi drops into the visitor chair. “It’s the aesthetic I’m going for. Haunted Victorian doll. Or, like, vampire chic.”
Mila doesn’t take the bait. Instead, she angles her head, studying Naomi carefully. “What’s going on with you?” she asks gently. “And don’t say work. You thrive under pressure. This is something else.”
