Naomi frowns. “Tall?”
“You’ll know him when you see him,” Jesse says, winking at her.
And then she hears it. The heavy thud of skates on rubber flooring. A swish of pads. The stomp of someone enormous barreling closer.
Rounding the corner, in full gear and towering at a frankly disrespectful height, is the same smug skyscraper from the café the night before. Helmet under his arm. Black beanie pulled low over disheveled blond hair.
Naomi’s soul flatlines.
She is dead. Gone. Deceased. Murdered by happenstance.
Her voice escapes in a strangled gasp.
“You!”
The goalie—whose jersey literally says Tall, because subtlety is dead—comes to a slow stop in front of her. His expression is as blank as it had been in the café. His eyes sweep over her, unhurried, as if searching for some internal file on who she is, and then?—
There it is.
The tiniest, infuriating lift at the corner of his mouth.
“You again,” he says, like it’s a passing observation.
Naomi’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Of course the universe decided the Sandwich Swindler would also be a Whaler.
Jesse shoves his padded fist into Tall’s chest in greeting. It’s the hockey version of a fist bump, though Tall barely moves under the impact, like he’s made of cinder blocks. He’s still staring at Naomi, blue eyes twinkling with mischief.
Jesse tilts his head, curious. “Hold up—you two know each other?”
Naomi blurts, “We don’t,” at the same time Tall deadpans, “She follows me around.”
Her entire body recoils.
She whirls on him, scandalized. “Oh my god, I do not. You make it sound like I’m stalking you.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just looks down at her with that maddeningly unreadable face—and the faintest twitch of his mouth like he’s trying very hard not to look amused.
“You sure?” he says, gaze dipping slightly. “You’re small. And sneaky.”
Heat rockets up her neck and floods her face. Her brain blanks. Her mouth opens, closes, opens again. She’s pretty sure her soul has detached and is floating somewhere near the rafters with the team’s championship banners from yesteryear.
And the worst part? Mila's trying not to laugh.
While Naomi’s still sputtering, Tall turns to Jesse. “Let’s go. Need you shooting on me.”
Jesse perks up, like a kid being called for recess. “Bet. Let me grab my stick.”
“Wait, you just got here,” Mila protests, her hand reaching for Jesse’s arm.
He grins sheepishly, already backing away. “Sorry, but…he’s the goalie. If he says he wants pucks, I give him pucks.”
Naomi scowls. “What does that even mean?”
Jesse shrugs as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Goalies are just...different. They‘re like housecats. We don’t question their rituals.”
Naomi stares at the towering man disappearing down the tunnel, Jesse trailing behind like an obedient puppy. Every nerve ending in her body buzzes with humiliation and rage.
So on top of being infuriatingly literal, the man comes with his own set of special rules.
