Garrett tells himself he’s worked too damn hard to let someone crawl under his skin. He’s finally close—so close—to getting the call-up, the one that’s been dangling in front of him all season. All he needs to do is stay focused. No distractions.
And Naomi is nothingbuta distraction.
He tosses the towel in the hamper and yanks a hoodie over his head, the fabric sticking to damp skin. His jaw is locked so tight it aches. He pushes open the door to the dressing room, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, and heads for his stall.
Then he stops short.
His stick isn’t where he left it.
It’s leaning a few inches off its usual spot and it’s angled wrong, resting against the bench instead of the wall.
A muscle jumps in his jaw.
Someone moved it.
He lunges for the stick, fingers curling around the taped butt end, ready to throw it across the room—or break it, maybe. He feels the urge to hurl something.
But then he sees the message, scrawled in thick black Sharpie across the blade:
Not as fun as the last stick I handled.
He stares at the words, the handwriting unmistakably hers—loopy, and dramatic.
But it’s the second line that guts him.
I miss you—N.
It’s written smaller and neater beneath the first, like she added it afterwards. His throat tightens, a pressure that burns and won’t let go. He blinks once. Twice. The room feels too bright, too still.
It’s not an insult disguised as a flirt. It’s not a joke.
And he does not know what to do with that—no idea what to do with her feelings written in permanent marker on the one thing he doesn't let anyone touch.
He sits down hard on the bench, elbows on his knees, stick still in his hands. Everything in his chest is pulling in different directions.
She misses him.
And worse—he misses her too.
But he doesn’t know how to miss her and still be sharp. Still be focused. Still be good enough to make the damn call-up.
He doesn’t like this feeling. Doesn’t like how it unspools inside him, fraying the edges of the person he’s worked so hard to be.
“Damn,” Carter’s voice cuts through the dressing room, sharp and unwelcome. “Didn’t think anyone was still around.”
Garrett’s head jerks up, his whole body going rigid.
Carter’s standing in the doorway, slinging his duffel over one shoulder, grin already halfway to obnoxious.
Garrett says nothing. Just glares. He is not in the mood for Carter’s bullshit.
The forward steps further into the room, eyebrows lifting. “Everyone else dipped hours ago. You lose track of time in your ice coffin, or…?”
Garrett doesn’t answer. He’s still holding the stick. Still feeling like his skin doesn’t fit right.
“Ohhh. I know why you’re still here.” Carter points at him, smug as hell. “It’s because of Red, isn’t it?”
Garrett’s on his feet before he even realizes it, the stick still clenched in his fist, his knuckles white.
