sure jan
Garrett had dropped her at the hotel the team booked for him in Brooklyn earlier, with a kiss that tasted like nerves and a dash of coffee. He’d been apologetic—annoyed that he had to rush off for morning skate, that they wouldn’t get time to do anything together. She’d waved him off. “Please, I’m a grown woman. I can entertain myself for an afternoon without supervision.”
Which had turned into a glorious several hours of shopping, sightseeing, and snacking. She’d called Mila from a vegan café Garrett recommended, oat-milk latte in one hand and a comically large peanut butter cookie in the other, trying to explain—very casually—why she had switched her flight.
Mila had shrieked a self-righteous, “I KNEW IT!” the second Naomi confessed.
“I’m so proud of you,” she’d crowed. “You never let people in, and now look at you. You caught feelings and back pain!”
Naomi had snorted. “Thanks, Mom.”
The call had ended with Mila sending her off with a “Later, puck slut” after extracting a promise from Naomi to spill everything on Monday.
Now she’s here—perched on the edge of her seat, knee bouncing like it’s had three shots of espresso—as the Mavericks hit the ice for warm-ups. She spots him immediately. Garrett in a crimson Mavericks jersey, towering even among other pros like some hockey-playing monolith. His mask is pushed up, revealing his maddeningly handsome face, his square jaw dusted with stubble, the same stubble currently haunting her thighs.
Her man is not starting. He told her that fifty times, probably just so she wouldn’t get her hopes up. He hadn’t even wanted his parents to make the drive from Morristown—“I’m on the bench, don’t make it a thing,” he’d grumbled when he called them from the car—but she’d bet good money they were here somewhere. His dad had answered, sounding gruff like Garrett, but she could hear the pride tucked under every monosyllabic word. The entire exchange had been stupidly endearing—like father, like emotionally constipated son.
Her heart does a giddy jump watching him warm up on NHL ice, and she claps her mittened hands together feeling like a deranged seal.
Her phone buzzes with texts, but she ignores it, too busy watching Garrett drop into a butterfly stretch at the far end. The back of her neck heats—God, why is that hot? He’s a goalie. He stretches weird. And yet.
She leans back in her seat, letting herself replay the car ride up, that awkward first hour where she tried to be quiet. Supportive. The version of herself that doesn’t make nonstop sarcastic commentary while he’s mentally prepping for something huge.
She’d lasted forty-five minutes. Maybe.
At some point, Garrett reached over, flicked the volume down on the radio, and shot her a sideways look, skeptical as hell. “Why are you being weird?”
She’d bristled, fully offended. “I’m not being weird. I’m respecting your mental space. I’m basically noise-canceling headphones.”
He’d snorted and kept his eyes on the road as he reached over to squeeze her thigh.
“Naomi, you’re the least quiet person I know. It’s unnerving.”
Honestly? Fair.
After that, the tension broke. They fell into their usual rhythm—teasing, quipping, veering dangerously close to flirting whenever his hand wandered to her knee. She grilled him about his life as if it were a job interview with bonus sexual tension.
She learned he was an only child (shock), grew up in Morristown, New Jersey, went to college in Michigan on a full ride, and had been vegan since he was eighteen, after watching a documentary that “ruined cheese forever.”
He also confessed—gruffly, like it physically hurt to admit it—that once his living situation was stable, he wanted a dog.
A dog.
Imagining that hulking, serious man cooing over a puppy had Naomi nearly dropping her panties on the spot.
As the Mavericks face off against the Seattle Kraken and the puck drops, Naomi settles into her seat with a container of popcorn balanced on her lap. The game is faster and so much more intense than the AHL games she’s watched since developing her fixation on all things Garrett.
A Kraken forward tears down the wing, slips a pass clean between two Mavericks defenders, and—bam!—buries it behind the goalie less than five minutes into the game. The arena grumbles, restless and unimpressed that the home team just coughed up the first goal.
Naomi’s gaze wanders to Garrett every few minutes—he’ssitting at the mouth of the tunnel beside the bench, mask off, eyes locked on the play. He looks focused. Serious. Huge. Like a gladiator waiting to be tagged in.
By the middle of the second period, she’s halfway through her popcorn and fully through pretending she’s a casual fan. The Mavs tie it up, and the pace turns brutal. When the puck swings near the crease, her muscles tense. When someone gets slammed into the boards, she winces. Who is she?
A Kraken player snakes toward the net, and just as he pulls back to shoot, a Mavericks defenseman drops his shoulder and clobbers him. The Kraken player goes flying forward, crashing into the goalie’s legs like a human wrecking ball.
Naomi jerks in her seat. Both players hit the ice hard. She sees the Mavs goalie’s head smack the surface. His mask jolts with the impact.
Trainers are on the ice in seconds, crouched beside him. The goalie’s conscious, talking, but sluggish. He lifts one glove, then lets it drop again. Naomi’s heart is doing full-on gymnastics now, flipping between worry and anticipation.
