With that, he raps his knuckles once more and walks out—Garrett’s least favorite teammate, leaving a trail of truths he never wanted to hear.
CHAPTER 24
NAOMI
Naomi licks buffalo sauce off her thumb and takes a long sip of beer, the bubbles fizzing sharp against the back of her throat. It’s her second, and the buzz is soft and golden at the edges of her brain—just enough to blur the sharp corners of the day.
Jesse’s in the middle of a story about him flirting with a woman at the hotel bar during his call-up with the Cavs—only to discover the next morning that she was, in fact, the team’s new nutritionist.
And she had a full workup of his dietary sins.
Carter’s howling. He’s leaned so far back in his chair it’s a miracle he hasn’t tipped over. “Bro. You tried to wheelteam staff?”
“I didn’t know!” Jesse replies, voice pitching higher. “She didn’t say anything! I thought she was like a sexy accountant. She asked me what I was doing in town.”
Naomi raises an eyebrow. “And you said...?”
“I told her I was in town for work,” Jesse says into his beer. He’s blushing so hard it’s impossible not to suspect there’s more to the story than he’s letting on.
Carter smirks. “So lemme get this straight—you shoot yourshot, then the next day you’re in your jimmies and she shows up to roast your Pop-Tart addiction ?”
“Something like that,” Jesse mumbles, covering a smile with another sip of beer.
Naomi raises a brow, amused. “Okay, yeah. No. There is definitely more to this story.”
Jesse flushes deeper, ears going red. “It was just a misunderstanding.”
Naomi lets herself smile, really smile. Her stomach still aches, but at least now it’s from laughing.
She had not wanted to come out. She was going to eat sad room service in her hotel bed and stew in self-loathing. But Jesse had seen her leaving the arena with her eyes suspiciously moist and a stiff upper lip, and declared, bumping her shoulder, that she was coming for dinner with them, no arguments.
And now, despite the absurdly long day, despite the gnawing ache still lodged under her ribs—she’s glad they dragged her out.
Huckleberry’s is packed with locals, sports on the TVs, a server weaving through tables with a tray full of cheap pitchers. The lighting is low, warm. It smells of fried food and old jokes. And right now, it’s exactly what she needs: bar food, beer, and two absolute goofballs who won’t stop trying to make her laugh.
Naomi sets her beer down with dramatic finality. “Okay. You want cringe?”
Carter leans in. Jesse’s already grinning, eyes wide like he’s bracing for impact.
“So,” she says, “I went out with this guy I met on Hinge. His profile said he was into fitness, music, and ‘thinking critically.’ Which, turns out, is code for conspiracy theories.”
“Oh no,” Jesse whispers.
“Oh yes,” Naomi says. “We meet at this cute cocktail bar, and within ten minutes he’s explaining how the moon landing was faked, birds aren’t real, and Beyoncé was never pregnant.”
Carter chokes. “He tried to drag Queen B into his nonsense? Jail.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Naomi says. “Then he pulled laminated charts out of his backpack and tried to convince me the earth is actually shaped like a disc. Full-on science fair energy.”
Jesse practically slides under the table. “Not laminated.”
“Laminated,” Naomi confirms, popping a cauliflower wing into her mouth. “And then—then—he leans in all serious and says, ‘Most people aren’t ready for the truth. But you…you seem different.’”
Carter wheezes. “You almost became Mrs. Flat Earth.”
Naomi smirks. “I made it through one drink, faked a work emergency, left, blocked him on everything. Done. Crisis averted.”
“Please tell me he showed up at your office,” Jesse says.
