That’s his name, by the way. Naomi looked it up on the roster after their run-in at the arena. Okay, stalked him on Google for a solid hour last night in her hotel room, learning all she could about the Sandwich Swindler. Age 24. He’s played three seasons professionally, mostly in the AHL, but was called up to the NHL last season where he had a string of bad games.
He was traded to Hartford before the season began to be their starting goalie. According to the articles, he’s up for another shot at the NHL as soon as they decide he’s ready.
Now the goalie lurks at the edge of the group, looking vaguely uncomfortable and irritated that he's uncomfortable. He’s not doing terribly, exactly—but he sticks out like someone dropped a wild animal into a petting zoo and hoped for the best.
He’s hovering near a pair of parents, nodding like he read once that’s what humans do in social situations. And then, to Naomi’s horror, he opens his mouth.
“I’m not often trusted with delicate things,” he tells a dad holding a toddler in a tiny Whalers onesie.
Naomi blinks.
The dad blinks.
Even the baby looks alarmed.
“Um,” another nearby mom says, shifting her baby on her hip.
Tall nods solemnly, voice deadpan. “It’s okay. Today I’m pretending to be good with kids.”
Nope. Absolutely not.
Naomi inhales through her nose, summoning patience. She crosses the room and grabs him gently by the elbow like she’s escorting a particularly large, elderly relative out of a Best Buy.
“Hi,” she says, tight-lipped, steering him away. “Quick sidebar?”
He doesn’t argue, just follows, and his legs are so damn long she has to scurry to keep up.
Once they’re clear of the playroom, she stops and turns to face him, arms folding.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but we need to workshop your people skills.”
He frowns. “What?”
“You can’t say things like that.”
His brow furrows, genuinely confused. “Like what?”
“All of it. Literally all of it. The whole vibe,” she says, gesturing vaguely at him. “You sound like a Bond villain doing a daycare internship.”
“I was being honest,” he says, stone-faced. “Just because I play hockey doesn’t mean I’m suddenly Mr. Rogers.”
Naomi pinches the bridge of her nose, summoning patience. “Look, you’re very…intense. You need to soften the edges. Smile more.”
He blinks, utterly unbothered. “I smiled at that baby.”
“She cried.”
“Not my fault she lacks taste.”
Naomi holds up a hand. “I don’t think it’s a taste issue.”
He scoffs. “Well, I can’t make myself smaller.”
“No, but you can kneel,” she says, poking him in the chest. “Or sit. Get down on the kid’s level. Try complimenting their light-up shoes, their superhero backpack. Ask them about their stuffed dinosaur. You make it about them, not you. You’re not here to be mysterious. You’re here to make them smile.”
He watches her closely, like she’s giving him step-by-step instructions on how to operate a nuclear reactor. But then, shockingly, he nods.
“I’ll try to be…less ominous.”
