She’s a competent adult. A woman who travels for work. A marketing professional here to consult on a TV spot and photoshoot for a very real, very professional hockey team.
She is also wearing flats.
That part still feels like both a betrayal and a revolution. No more aching arches. No more chasing respect in four-inch stilettos. Not today.
Today, she kicks ass in ballet flats.
And maybe—maybe—she gets her heart kicked around a little in return.
She’d stared at herself in the hotel mirror for too long this morning, toggling between a blazer that screamedtrying too hardand something softer. In the end, the wide-leg navy trousers and cream sweater won. Her lip gloss, subtle. Her hair, wild but wrangled.
She had tried to strike the impossible balance betweenunbothered professional queenandplease ruin me again, big goalie man.
God, what does someone even wear to both command respect and apologize with their entire soul?
Naomi drags in another breath, squares her shoulders, and tugs her phone out of her pocket. No messages. Not that she expected any. Not that she’s been checking every five minutes like a pathetic teenager with a crush.
Today is not about Garrett Tall.
Today is about Glen and the team’s playoff push. About getting this shoot in the can. About executing a flawless day of content capture without evaporating into a puff of longing.
She tucks her phone away, squares her shoulders, then she heads down the hall, flats thudding with quiet, non-dramatic resolve.
The faint clang of weights and the murmur of voices grow louder as Naomi rounds the corner toward the meeting room. She slows when a tall, familiar blur catches her eye.
“Naomi?”
Jesse Mitchell, in all his sweaty, golden-curls glory, jogs into the hallway, wearing a Whalers dry-fit and a grin that could power a small town.
“Oh,” she says, surprised. “Hey!”
Before she can brace herself, he wraps her in a full-body hug that’s warm and, dear god, so damp.
“Ew,” she says into his shoulder, wrinkling her nose. “You smell like gym class.”
Jesse just laughs, squeezing her harder. “Missed you too.”
She pats his back, feeling like a hostage negotiating release. “Are you leaking onto me right now?”
He pulls back and gives her a sheepish look. “Little bit.”
Behind him, she can hear the clatter of weights and other voices from the weight room—Carter’s unmistakable laugh, someone yelling about protein powder—and she has to physically fight the urge to glance that way and look for Tall.
Nope. Not doing that.
“You look good,” Jesse says, wiping his forehead with a towel slung over his shoulder. “You here for the shoot?”
Naomi nods. “Yeah. Glen roped me back in.”
“Well, we’re lucky.”
There’s a beat of genuine warmth between them, and it hits her how much she likes this. She likes being here on the ground, not tucked in a sanitized boardroom. She likes reading the room and figuring out how to talk to people who’d rather do literally anything than stand in front of a camera. She likes the challenge of building trust and coaxing clients out of their shells.
“Congrats, by the way,” she says. “On the games with the Mavericks. You crushed it.”
Jesse scratches the back of his neck, suddenly bashful. “Thanks. Yeah, I got back last week. They said I’m back here for the rest of the season unless somebody else gets hurt, but…next year’s looking good.”
“That’s huge.”
