He beams, and the sheer joy radiating from him makes Naomi's chest ache. His family must be so proud of him.
“Go finish being gross,” she tells him, nodding toward the weight room. “I have to find Glen.”
Jesse mock-salutes her and jogs backward, already yelling obscenities to someone inside. Before she can stop herself, she turns to scan the shadows beyond the door, then looks away.
Nope, still not doing that. Not yet.
The walls of Glen’s office are covered in memorabilia—framed jerseys, posters from seasons past, and a team photo from the early 2000s when he still had all his hair. Naomi is perched on the edge of a folding chair, laptop open, a marked-up script balanced on one knee, pen tucked behind her ear.
Glen leans back in his rolling chair, arms folded across his chest, reading over the updated shot list with a slow, thoughtful nod. His reading glasses sit low on his nose, and Naomi watches as his brows lift.
“These changes are perfect,” he says finally, tapping the page. “Feels like we actually have a personality on the team. Don’t know how you come up with this stuff so quickly.”
Naomi smiles, a little tight-lipped. “This is what happens when you write enough campaign copy at 1 a.m. with a deadline breathing down your neck.”
Glen chuckles. “I mean it. You’ve got a way of making these guys sound like humans and not robots. That’s a skill.”
Naomi shrugs one shoulder. “Just takes a little translation. Hockey-speak into ticket-selling English.”
He snorts, then sighs as he flips to the next page. “Still wild that we had to rewrite the whole damn thing.”
“Roger didn’t want the p-word in there?”
“Playoffs? Hell no. Didn’t even want it implied.” Glen rubs his temple. “Said we’d jinx the whole operation.”
Naomi raises an eyebrow, amused. “I’m starting to realize every single person in this sport is wildly superstitious.”
“You have no idea,” Glen says, shaking his head. “We had a winger once who refused to step on the locker room logo. Wouldn’t let anyone else do it either. One time a rookie forgot, and he made the poor kid run laps around the parking lot to cleanse the bad juju.”
Her mouth quirks “Okay, that’s intense. But…I sort of get it. It gives them a sense of control, right?”
“Oh, totally. Half of it’s about routine, the other half is straight-up superstitious voodoo. Lots of players eat the same pregamemeal every single time. Keeps them regular, no nasty surprises on the ice,” he grins. “But we had this one guy who ate an entire loaf of plain white bread before every game. No butter, no toppings. Just…slice after slice.”
She laughs, tipping her head back. “Why?”
“Said the goals lived in the slices. Swore by it.” Glen shakes his head fondly. “You don’t question it.”
Naomi feels the warmth between them settle like an old sweater. She enjoys working with Glen. He’s sharp but unfussy, always says what he means, and actually reads the documents she sends him—rare qualities in a client. He’s overworked, just like she is, but is also one of the few men in her orbit who treats her ideas with respect without making a show of it.
She adjusts the hem of her sweater and scrolls to the updated call sheet. “So it’s Jesse Mitchell, Trayvon Carter, Tristan Fleischer, and Garrett Tall, in that order?”
“Yep. They’ll rotate through for the solo spots and the B-roll. I’ve got them for two hours. Should be enough if no one breaks anything.” He flips to his next document. “But I forgot to tell you that Tall opted out. We’ll use Duchovny instead.”
Naomi’s head snaps up. “What?”
Glen glances over, startled by the sharpness in her voice. She coughs, forcing her expression back to neutral, smoothing the reaction from her face like creases in a shirt.
She tries again, light and easy, like it’s just a matter of scheduling. “Why not Tall? He’s their starting goalie, isn’t he?”
Glen shrugs, already flipping to the next sheet. “Said it would mess with his head. Wants to keep his focus tight. The way his play has dipped lately, I think the brass gave him what he wants. They don’t want to throw him off more than he already is.”
Naomi’s thoughts spin so fast she misses what Glen is saying to her.
He opted out.
The words echo, blunt and final.
She came all the way here, hoping for a chance to fix things, to say what she couldn’t before. To just see him.
