Jesse nods, reaching for his water bottle. “Yeah. He’s icing down right now, I think.”
For a second, all Naomi can do is stare at him. Her jaw sets; her fingers tighten around her laptop until the corner digs into her palm.
He’s here.
Not gone. Not off somewhere “keeping his focus tight.”
He’shere—avoiding her.
The ache under her ribs transforms into fury, threaded with humiliation.
“Where?” she asks, proud of herself for keeping her voice level.
“One of the rehab rooms, I think,” Jesse says, but she’s already turning toward the hallway, pulse thrumming.
Naomi shoves open the door to the room Jesse indicated with more force than necessary, the heavy latch clanging against the wall. There are several massage tables, what looks like a doctor’s exam table covered in paper, and in the corner, a waist-high metal tub full of ice—literal ice—and a shirtless wall of muscle and irritation.
She immediately forgets every angry word she had rehearsed as she stomped down the hallway. For a solid three seconds, she stands there like an idiot, trying to reconcile what she’s seeing.
Chunks of ice float against Tall’s chest and shoulders, glistening under the harsh fluorescents. His skin is flushed in places, pale in others, the color difference striking against the black ink curling up both arms. She’s seen glimpses before—tattoos peeking out from under sleeves, the shadow of one near his collarbone—but never like this. Now they’re all there, unapologetic and bold.
Her mouth goes dry. “What—” she gestures helplessly, “what the hell are you doing?”
“Recovering,” he says flatly. His voice is a low rasp, the kind that vibrates somewhere deep in her stomach.
“When Jesse said icing down, I thought he meant with ice packs!” she blurts, stepping closer. The tub looks miserable—like a punishment for naughty hockey players who refused to admit they were injured and needed to sit their muscled asses down. “Why would you do this to yourself?”
He gives a humorless huff, the corner of his mouth twitching into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Because it’s cheaper than therapy.”
She blinks. “That’s not funny.”
“Didn’t say it was.” His gaze flicks past her, already dismissive. “You shouldn’t be in here.”
He’s got that locked-up expression again—tight jaw, clenched fists, a storm brewing behind his eyes. Not annoyed that she’s broken some unspoken rule by being in the locker room, but seething in a way that makes her chest tighten, because she knows—knows—she’s part of the reason.
“Too bad,” she says, squaring her shoulders. “You can add uninvited guests to your list of things that ruin your focus.”
“Add yourself twice. For emphasis.”
Naomi pauses—then feels the corner of her mouth twitch. There it is. That dry, biting Tall humor she’s been trying not to miss. He might be angry, but if he’s still insulting her, she hasn’t lost all her leverage.
Maybe it’s not too late to make things right.
“I missed you at the shoot today.”
Tall exhales, long and deliberate, like he’s counting to ten. “I’m not a prop for your ad campaign.”
“That’s not why I’m here,” she says sharply. “And you know it.”
The words hang there, clouding the air between them. Her pulse hammers in her ears, the silence thick except for the faint crackle of melting ice.
He shifts, leaning his head back against the rim of the tub, closing his eyes like he can block her out by shutting out the world.
“I have to be in here for six more minutes,” he mutters. “I’d like them to be in peace.”
Her patience snaps, a thread pulled too tight. “Too bad,” she says, spotting a metal stool near the wall. She drags it across the floor, the scrape loud enough to make him flinch, and plants it right next to the tub, plopping down with stubborn finality. Her knees brush the edge of the ice bath, the cold air licking at her skin.
If he’s determined to freeze her out, then fine—she’ll get frostbite with him.
