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PROLOGUE - brODY

T he Phoenix sun hit like a physical force as I stepped out of the airport terminal. September in Arizona still felt like peak summer anywhere else I’d lived.

“First time in the desert?” asked the driver the team had sent.

“That obvious?” I adjusted my sunglasses, already feeling sweat forming under my collar.

“Always is with the new guys from up north.” He loaded my bags into the SUV. “You’ll get used to it. Eventually.”

I wasn’t so sure. After four years in Boston University’s freezing winters, the scorching heat felt alien. Then again, everything about this moment was surreal—my first NHL contract, moving across the country, joining a team filled with players I’d grown up watching on TV.

The ride to the training facility passed in a blur of palm trees and stucco buildings. My mind raced with the standard rookie anxieties: Would I measure up? Could I earn a permanent roster spot? Would the veterans accept me or make my life miserable?

“Here we are,” the driver announced, pulling up to an imposing modern building. “Team offices and training complex.”

The facility was state-of-the-art—gleaming equipment, pristine ice, training rooms that looked more like a space station than a gym. I followed signs to the locker room, where a few other players were already changing.

“Carter, right? Boston University?” A friendly-looking guy about my age extended his hand. “Tommy Harrington. Michigan State.”

“Yeah, that’s me.” I shook his hand, relieved to find another rookie.

“College boys stick together,” Tommy said with a grin. “The juniors guys already have their clique.”

Before I could respond, the locker room energy shifted. Players sat straighter, conversations quieted. A man in his early thirties walked in, carrying himself with the easy confidence of someone who knew exactly how good he was.

“That’s Martinez,” Tommy whispered unnecessarily. “Team captain.”

Jason Martinez, Phoenix’s star forward and franchise player. His reputation preceded him—a brilliant scorer with a notoriously intense competitive streak and little patience for mistakes.

Martinez scanned the room, taking inventory of the new faces. When his eyes landed on me, I felt an instinctive urge to stand at attention.

“Fresh meat,” he said, nodding toward us. “College boys, right?”

“Yes, sir,” Tommy replied. “Harrington, Michigan State. This is Carter from BU.”

Martinez raised an eyebrow. “Sir? I’m not that old yet, kid.” He looked me over. “Carter. Defenseman, right? Coach says you’ve got good hands for a big guy.”

“I try to contribute offensively when I can,” I said, trying to sound confident without arrogance.

“We’ll see.” Martinez opened his locker. “First rule of Phoenix hockey: defense first, always. Second rule: what happens in the room stays in the room. Third rule: rookies earn their minutes.”

The message was clear—respect the hierarchy, prove yourself, keep quiet.

“There’s an unofficial fourth rule,” added a veteran defenseman named Reicher. “Don’t piss off Martinez if you want ice time.”

Laughter rippled through the room, but Martinez didn’t deny it.

* * *

Three months into my first season, I was still trying to navigate the invisible boundaries of team culture. Which is how I found myself at Martinez’s annual Christmas party, tugging at the collar of my suit—my first custom-tailored suit, bought with my signing bonus—as I followed the stream of cars up the winding driveway toward a house that could easily fit three of the one I’d grown up in.

“You look like you’re heading to your execution, not a party,” Tommy Harrington said, falling into step beside me. “Relax. Free booze, good food, chance to network with the veterans off-ice.”

“I know. Just not big on parties.”

“Big on keeping your job though, right?” Tommy elbowed me. “Martinez hosts this every year. Team tradition. Word is he notices who shows and who doesn’t.”

The sprawling Mediterranean-style mansion opened into a soaring entryway where a woman in a black dress took our coats. Music, conversation, and the clink of glasses echoed from deeper within.

It was during a brief escape from a tedious conversation about golf handicaps that I found myself wandering down a quieter hallway. A partially open door revealed a study—walls lined with bookshelves, leather furniture, a welcome absence of Christmas decorations or partygoers.

A woman sat curled in a corner of a leather sofa, shoes off, legs tucked beneath her, absorbed in a book. Elliot Waltman-Martinez, Jason’s wife. We’d met briefly earlier in the season.

She looked up, startled, a flash of alarm crossing her face before recognition set in.

“Sorry,” I said, taking a step back. “I was looking for a quiet spot. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“You’re not,” she closed her book but kept a finger between the pages. “Just taking a brief sanity break. You’re welcome to share the quiet.”

I stepped into the room, drawn to the bookshelves. “Impressive collection.”

“Thank you. These are mine. Jason let me have this room for my books when we moved in. It was a non-negotiable condition.”

I scanned the shelves—classics, contemporary fiction, non-fiction, and an entire section dedicated to Russian literature. “Good condition for your marriage.”

That earned a genuine smile. “A woman has to have her priorities. What was your name again? I’m sorry, Jason’s introductions tend to be...”

“Minimal?” I supplied. “Brody Carter. First year with the team.”

“Right, the Boston defenseman. College hockey.” She gestured to the chair opposite her. “Please, sit. I promise not to make you talk about hockey. You probably get enough of that.”

We talked about books—her academic background in literature, my history major with a literature minor. She was reading Pride and Prejudice (“For approximately the twelfth time”) and had strong opinions on the characters. For twenty minutes, I forgot I was a rookie at my captain’s house. I forgot about the pressure to fit in, to impress. Instead, I was just a guy having an actual conversation with a woman who seemed to light up when talking about something she loved.

Then the study door swung open.

“There you are.” Jason Martinez stood in the doorway, annoyance evident in his posture. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. The Marksons want to discuss that charity thing.”

“I was just taking a short break,” Elliot said, spine straightening, book closing. “Lost track of time.”

Martinez’s gaze shifted to me, narrowing. “Carter. Did you get lost?”

“Not lost,” I said, standing. “Just admiring your wife’s book collection. We were discussing literature.”

“Literature,” Martinez repeated flatly. He moved into the room, arm dropping around Elliot’s shoulders as she rose. “Sounds thrilling. But I need to borrow her. Team owner’s wife doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

“Of course,” Elliot said, all trace of the passionate debater gone, replaced by the polished hockey wife. “It was nice talking with you, Mr. Carter.”

“Brody,” I corrected.

“You should rejoin the party,” Martinez said. “Kelly was looking for rookies for some team bonding thing in the game room.”

The dismissal was clear. As they turned to leave, Martinez steered Elliot with that arm still around her shoulders, leaning to say something in her ear that made her posture stiffen. At the door, she glanced back, offering a small, apologetic smile.

For the rest of the evening, I caught only glimpses of Elliot—always at Jason’s side, always maintaining that perfect facade, always somehow separate from the glittering celebration around her. Nothing like the woman I’d briefly encountered in that study.

Five months later, I was traded to Boston. Business, they said. A defensive need on the team, a chance to develop my skills with a different system. But the locker room whispers suggested Martinez hadn’t appreciated finding me alone with his wife at the Christmas party, regardless of how innocent the conversation had been.

* * *

Boston was good for me—three solid seasons, consistent play, a leadership role developing among the younger players. Then my agent called with unexpected news.

“Phoenix wants you back,” he said, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Two-year deal, better money than Boston’s offering. Plus a no-trade clause for the first year.”

“Phoenix,” I echoed, the name conjuring memories I’d spent three years trying to compartmentalize.

“Where it all began.” He grinned. “Full circle moment, Carter. They’re serious about rebuilding their blue line, and they want you to be part of it.”

The din of the upscale Boston steakhouse faded as I processed the implications. Phoenix meant familiar ice, potentially former teammates, and memories both professional and personal that I’d deliberately left behind.

“I didn’t think they’d want me back,” I said. “Not after how things ended.”

My agent waved dismissively. “Ancient history. Different management now, different coaching staff. Half the roster has turned over.”

All true, yet insufficient to explain the sudden tightness in my chest. “Is Martinez still there?”

My agent’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Jason Martinez? No, he was traded to Miami last year. Why?”

Relief washed through me, followed immediately by another thought. If Jason was gone, then Elliot...

“Just wondering about the leadership situation,” I covered quickly. “After playing against them last season, I know they’ve had some locker room challenges.”

But my mind was already racing with possibilities I couldn’t voice aloud. Was Elliot still in Phoenix? Had she stayed after the divorce? The gossip had reached even Boston’s locker room—Martinez caught cheating with an ice girl, divorce papers filed, a settlement that apparently favored Elliot substantially.

I wanted to take Boston’s offer. The safer choice. The one that didn’t involve revisiting unresolved feelings for a woman who’d been firmly off-limits when we’d met and who likely wanted nothing to do with hockey or its players now.

But as I looked out at the Boston skyline that night, I realized I’d grown restless here. Three good years, solid teammates, decent success—but always with the sense that I was hiding. That I’d let circumstances and Jason Martinez dictate my path once before.

Three days later, I called my agent. “I’m in. Tell Phoenix I accept.”

* * *

One month after returning to Phoenix, I was jogging through my new neighborhood—a modest complex of connected townhouses with shared green spaces. The late morning sun was already fierce, forcing me to abandon my shirt after the first mile.

Rounding a corner near the central park area, I slowed when I spotted someone working at a table under the pergola. A woman with dark hair pulled back in a loose knot, focused intently on her laptop.

My steps faltered as recognition hit. Elliot. Older, if possible even more beautiful, absorbed in her work just as she’d been in that book years ago.

She looked up at my approach, her expression shifting from polite curiosity to shock as she realized who I was.

“Sorry to interrupt,” I said, trying for casual though my heart was racing in a way that had nothing to do with my run. “Just exploring the complex. I didn’t realize this park area was back here.”

“It’s a nice spot,” she managed. “Quiet, usually.”

“I’m Brody,” I said, extending my hand with what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “Brody Carter. Just moved in to Unit 14.”

“Elliot Waltman,” she replied, accepting my handshake with a strange sense of déjà vu. She’d dropped the Martinez, I noted with private satisfaction.

“Elliot,” I repeated. “Nice to meet you. Again.”

“You remember.” It wasn’t a question.

“A conversation with you wasn’t easily forgotten,” I said. “Especially when it was the most interesting discussion I’d had in months.”

Color rose to her cheeks. “That was a long time ago.”

“A few years, give or take.” I shifted, suddenly aware of my shirtless state. “Sorry about...” I gestured at my torso, “this. Phoenix heat. I forgot how brutal it can be after a few years away.”

“It’s fine,” she said, though her eyes darted away quickly. “You’re back with Phoenix now?”

“Just signed last month. Two-year contract.” I paused, studying her. She seemed both different and the same—the same intelligence in her eyes, but a new guardedness, a careful distance that hadn’t been there before. “I should let you get back to work. But maybe we could continue that literary debate sometime? I finally read Pride and Prejudice.”

“I should really finish this project,” she said, gesturing to her laptop. “Deadlines.”

“Of course.” I nodded, not pushing, but not entirely deterred either. “I’m sure we’ll run into each other again. Small complex.”

“I’m sure we will.” Her tone was noncommittal, but something flickered in her eyes—interest? Apprehension? Both?

As I jogged away, I couldn’t help glancing back. She was still watching me, a small furrow between her brows.

I smiled to myself. Four years ago, she’d been off-limits—my captain’s wife, bound to a man who didn’t seem to value the mind behind those expressive eyes. Now she was free. Now I was her neighbor. Now there was possibility.

I just had to convince her that not all hockey players were like Jason Martinez.