Perfect. Just perfect.
CHAPTER 3
NAOMI
The morning sun bounces off the glass facade of the Connecticut Children’s Hospital as Naomi and two dozen others gather in the parking lot. She squints at her reflection in the rental car window, smooths her auburn hair for the fifteenth time, and tells herself to relax.
This isn’t about you. This is for the kids. Be cool. Be capable.
A gust of wind nearly flips her skirt, which feels uncomfortably on brand for someone pretending to have her shit together.
Mila is ten feet away, locked in a heated discussion with Richard. Again. Naomi swears Richard would critique the way Mila breathes if he could.
Which leaves Naomi to wrangle the team of professional hockey players who she’s never met before and are horsing around like kids on a field trip.
She turns to face them, heels wobbling on the cracked asphalt.
They’re all in navy and green Whalers jerseys, paired with jeans or joggers, and looking exactly how one would expect pro athletes to look—tall, fit, and annoyingly photogenic. Some guys rock haircuts so appalling that Naomi assumes they lost a locker room bet.There’s a pair of mutton chops so ill-advised they somehow circle back to hot.
Thankfully, Mila had given her a full rundown earlier—names, positions, vibes—while parked and reapplying her lip gloss in the rearview mirror of their rental car. Naomi had tried to commit each face to memory while scrolling the roster on their website.
Time to convince everyone I totally know what I’m doing.
Trayvon Carter, dressed in black joggers and sneakers, flips a hockey puck between his fingers like it’s a coin in a magic trick. His warm brown eyes crinkle as he grins at her, and she can already tell he’s trouble. The fun kind.
Dark-haired Pavel Pekar stands off to the side, hands in his pockets, heavy brows drawn together like he’s translating the entire morning in his head. Mila said he’s from Slovakia and takes everything literally. She claims he’s a sweetie, but to Naomi he radiates Quiet Guy with Knife Collection energy.
Tristan Fleischer, who the guys call Flea, is blond, lean, and using the tinted window of an SUV to check his hair. He’s got the bone structure of a male model and, according to Mila, the attention span of a goldfish.
And off to the side is Theo Tilbury, also known as Tilly, the team’s quiet, broody defenseman. He leans against the hood of a car with downcast eyes. He hasn’t said a word, but Naomi clocked him instantly—the guy who lives behind his baseball cap and disappears into a room even when he’s the biggest one in it.
A dozen other guys round out the team today. Some are looking at her curiously, others are scrolling their feeds looking bored.
Jesse, bless him, catches her eye and gives her a thumbs-up like she’s about to go on stage instead of manage a handful of overly large men.
Naomi claps her hands, loud and firm.
“Alright, thank you for coming guys. We’ll get started soon, but here’s the deal. These kids are going to be nervous. To them, you’re larger than life. So don’t just walk in, sign something, and leave. Bepresent. Introduce yourselves. Ask about school, or hockey, or their favorite team.”
Carter raises his eyebrows, puck still spinning. “So, like…don’t lead with that time I got into it with that Utica defenseman?”
Naomi lifts her chin. “Maybe skip the fight stories for today, yeah?”
He grins, unbothered.
Beside him, Pavel tilts his head, confusion written all over his hawkish features. “We…ask them questions?”
“Yes. Questions are good.” Naomi nods encouragingly. “Things like, ‘Do you play hockey?’ or, ‘What do you like to do in school?’ Keep it simple.”
Tristan doesn’t look away from his reflection. “Kids love me. No notes.”
Naomi grins. “Wonderful. Try speaking in full sentences anyway.”
Jesse chuckles. “God, I love her.”
A flush of pride stains her cheeks. For a moment—an actual, golden second—she feels solid. Like she knows what she’s doing. Like she belongs here.
And then the light shifts.
