A long shadow stretches across the pavement, and heavy, booted footsteps thud behind her. Naomi doesn’t have to turn to know it’s him.
Yesterday, he caught her off guard.
Today, she’s ready.
Totally prepared.
She spins to face him, channels every drop of PR polish she’s ever faked, and immediately blurts, “Sandwich thief!”
Nailed it.
Tall raises a brow, that arrogant almost-smile tugging at his mouth. “Correction,” he says. “You tried to stealmysandwiches.”
Naomi bristles, pulse ticking faster. “Revisionist history.”
“Call it what you want,” he says, voice light, lip quirking just enough to show how much he’s enjoying her irritation.
Indignation lights up every cell in her body, but before she can demand a retraction, the hospital liaison appears, clapping her hands with cheery authority. “Okay, team, let’s head in and meet the kids!”
The moment Naomi steps onto the pediatric floor, her stomach curls in on itself, too full of nerves to hold anything else.
It’s not the crowd of pro hockey players that has her palms sweating. It’s the kids.
It’s the quiet hum of machines. The gentle beeping from monitors, soft and steady like lullabies. The colorful murals painted on the walls—jungle animals and superheroes smiling from every corner—doing their best to distract from oxygen masks and feeding tubes. The stuffed animals clutched tight. And the parents, hovering at the edges, smiling through what looks like months, possibly years, of exhaustion.
She inhales slowly, willing herself to stay grounded. This visit matters. It matters more than engagement numbers and clean copy. These kids deserve joy. They deserve magic, even if it only lasts a few minutes.
And she’s going to make damn sure the guys make that happen.
Naomi hangs near the back as the players file in. Instead of helmets and sticks, they’re sporting foam swords, capes, and the collective emotional maturity of a kindergarten class. She watches as tiny faces peek out from beds and wheelchairs, IV poles rattling beside them, eyes wide as they take in the ragtag crew of visitors. There’s a hesitant wave here, a shy smile there.
Then—like someone flips a switch—the whole room lights up. Grins everywhere. The happiness spreads fast, leaping from face to little face.
Jesse, unsurprisingly, is a rock star. He drops to his knees in front of a little girl in a princess gown and chemo cap, bows withall the drama of a Shakespearean actor, and presents her with a foam sword.
“For Her Highness,” he says solemnly. “May your reign be long and filled with cake.”
He flops dramatically to the floor, tongue out, slain by a single swing of her sword.
The girl’s giggles nearly knock Naomi sideways. Her throat does something weird and squeezy as she watches them. She doesn’t like it. Not one bit.
Carter is across the room making an absolute disaster of the snack tray, trying to juggle apples. One goes rogue, but a nurse snags it midair with reflexes that put him to shame. The kids howl with laughter, chanting for an encore. Carter bows dramatically.
Naomi resists the urge to admonish him for destroying the snack tray. Full-body, unrestrained giggles bubble up from all the tiny chests in Carter’s vicinity, echoing down the sterile hallway.
Kids are happy. Mess it is.
Tristan, meanwhile, is pouring on the charm. He’s nabbed a stethoscope and is letting a five-year-old listen to his heartbeat through his jersey. “Sounds strong, right? That’s from all the chicken nuggets.”
The kid cracks up, and Tristan looks over and winks at Naomi.
Damn, he really is good with kids.
And then?—
There’s him.
If awkward were a person, it would be Garrett Tall.
