Garrett:Gonna be a while. They want interviews and stuff. I can meet you at the hotel.
Naomi:Absolutely not. I am sticking around for your famous ass.
She hits send—and immediately cringes. Perfect. If that was his polite brush-off, she just answered like a woman who has absolutely zero chill. Negative chill. Subterranean levels of chill.
The arena is mostly deserted—save for a few staff cleaning up, the distant hum of the Zamboni circling the ice. Naomi’s sitting in the front row, jacket zipped to her chin, cradling a tea that’s long gone lukewarm.
She’s mid-self-flagellation when movement catches her eye and a tall figure emerges from the tunnel.
Oh, hello.
Garrett's hair is still damp from the post-game shower, one rebellious dark blond curl flopping forward. She eyes him appreciatively. His tie is loosened, his suit fitting like it was made to be ripped off. His expression is serious, intense, like he’s still coming down from Game Mode.
For one stupid second, she wonders if this was a mistake—if she should’ve taken the out he offered, because maybe he doesn’t actually want her here. Maybe she’s overstaying. Overthinking. Over-everything.
But she lifts her chin anyway. “Well. That was terrible,” she calls out.
He stops short. Blinks. Then his lips twitch with the barest of smirks.
“I mean really,” she continues, rising from her seat and sauntering toward him. “Only stopped four out of four in the shootout? You should be embarrassed.”
He gives her a dry look. The one that makes her toes curl. “Shut up.”
She reaches him, sliding her arms around his middle, fitting herself against him like he was sculpted for this exact purpose. Hisarms come around her instantly, pulling her in tighter. She feels the long sigh leave his chest—feels it like a whole-body exhale.
“I’m glad you stayed,” he murmurs, voice low against her hair.
Naomi’s heart soars, and she grins into his chest. “Because of my magic vagina?”
He pulls back to look at her, expression deadpan. “Absolutely. That and your charming humility.”
She gasps and smacks his chest, which makes his smirk grow one whole millimeter—basically a full grin for him.
They walk out through the side doors toward the players’ lot, the night air crisp against her cheeks. The inside of his truck is warm and dim and feels a little too intimate for two people who are pretending this is casual.
Garrett rests one hand on the wheel, the other on the gearshift, but doesn't put it in gear. His jaw ticks. His throat works, Adam's apple bobbing as he struggles to speak.
“They’re taking me on the road trip,” he says finally. “I leave tomorrow.”
Naomi’s stomach dips—but not in the way she thought it might. Not with sadness, but with pride. A warm, stupid swell rises in her chest, and she really wishes she could calm the hell down. He earned this. He deserves every second.
“That’s amazing,” she says, smiling as she turns fully toward him.
Garrett exhales, his jaw loosening, the tight line of his mouth softening—like he'd been bracing for her to wilt or pout.
“I thought you might be…I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Put out.”
“I’m not,” she says instantly. Too fast, probably. “I’m really, really not.”
His hand is on the wheel, tense, tendons tight, and she hesitates a second before resting her fingers on his, stroking across his knuckles. The gesture feels small but massive.
She clears her throat. “I, uh…thought maybeyou’dbe put out. That I’m here. On your big night.”
For a heartbeat, his expression doesn’t move. Then a flicker of warmth spreads across his stormy, deadpan exterior—quick, startled, like she’s said something he didn’t see coming.
He turns his hand under hers, threading their fingers together with a certainty that steals the air from her lungs.
“I’m happy you’re here,” he says. “Wouldn’t want anyone else.”
