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brODY

I ’ve been punched in the face fourteen times in my professional career. I’ve blocked shots with every part of my body, including once with my face. I played an entire playoff game with a hairline fracture in my wrist that felt like someone was driving nails into my bones every time I took a hit.

And yet somehow, walking into this charity gala with Elliot Waltman on my arm is more nerve-wracking than any of those things.

She looks incredible. The burgundy dress hugs her curves in a way that makes it physically painful to keep my eyes at an appropriate level. Her hair falls in soft waves around her shoulders, and there’s a confidence in her posture that wasn’t there when I picked her up. As if with each step toward the hotel ballroom, she’s rebuilding her armor, preparing for battle.

Which, in a way, she is.

“You okay?” I ask quietly as we hand over our tickets at the entrance.

“Ask me again in an hour,” she replies with a tight smile. “Preferably after I’ve had at least one glass of champagne.”

“I’ll get you two,” I promise, placing my hand lightly on her lower back as we enter the ballroom.

The space is transformed from when I saw it during setup earlier in the week. Sarah’s centerpieces—hockey sticks arranged with flowers in team colors—dominate each table, while twinkling lights crisscross the ceiling like stars. A band plays soft jazz in one corner, and well-dressed hockey players and their partners mingle with team executives and sponsors.

I feel Elliot tense beside me as several heads turn in our direction.

“We can still leave,” I murmur. “My calf cramp performance is ready to go at a moment’s notice.”

That earns me a genuine smile. “I’m fine. Just... processing.”

“Process all you need. I’ll be right here.”

Her eyes meet mine, filled with something that makes my heart stutter. “I know you will.”

Before I can respond, Tommy appears, looking uncomfortable in his tux but grinning widely.

“You made it!” he exclaims, clapping me on the shoulder before turning to Elliot. “And you look amazing. Sarah’s going to be thrilled you actually wore the dress she picked.”

“As if I had any choice in the matter,” Elliot replies dryly.

“Fair point. My wife is a benevolent dictator at best.” Tommy glances around. “Speaking of, she’s over by the silent auction tables, having a meltdown because someone arranged the bid sheets in alphabetical order instead of by item number.”

“That sounds like a Sarah emergency,” Elliot agrees. “Should we go provide moral support?”

“Probably safer to keep our distance until the situation is resolved,” Tommy advises. “I was sent to fetch more champagne for her ‘nerves.’”

“Smart man,” I say. “Self-preservation is the better part of valor.”

“Exactly.” He lowers his voice. “Though I should warn you—Matthews and Kelly are here. They still text Jason regularly.”

I feel Elliot stiffen beside me but admire how her expression barely flickers. “Thanks for the heads up,” she says calmly. Only the slight tightening of her hand on my arm betrays her tension.

“No problem. I’ll run interference if needed.” Tommy glances toward the bar. “I should get that champagne before Sarah stages a coup. See you guys in a bit.”

As he walks away, I turn to Elliot. “Champagne? Or something stronger?”

“Champagne first,” she decides. “Let’s not peak too early.”

We make our way to the bar, my hand remaining supportively at her back. I’m aware of the glances we’re receiving—curious, speculative, occasionally disapproving. Elliot seems to notice too, her spine straightening incrementally with each look.

“You know,” I say conversationally as we wait for our drinks, “if you get any more rigid, I could use you as a hockey stick in the next game.”

She snorts, some tension leaving her shoulders. “Are you saying I look stiff?”

“I’m saying you look like you’re prepared to duel someone with a dessert fork at any moment.”

“That’s my secret, Carter. I’m always prepared to duel with cutlery.” She accepts her champagne from the bartender with a small nod. “Standard technical editor training.”

“Remind me never to criticize your comma usage.”

“Wise decision. I once made an author cry over semicolon abuse.”

I laugh, steering us toward a relatively quiet corner of the room. “Semicolons are the devil’s punctuation. I never know when to use them.”

“They’re actually quite simple; you just need to understand their purpose,” she says, eyes twinkling as she deliberately uses one in her sentence.

“Show-off.”

She takes a sip of champagne, surveying the room over the rim of her glass. “So, this is your world, huh? Fancy parties and silent auctions?”

“Hardly,” I scoff. “My world is more ice packs and protein shakes. This is just the shiny wrapping paper we put on the sport a few times a year to convince rich people to give us money for charity.”

“Cynical, but accurate.”

“I’d say ‘realistic, but optimistic.’ The money does go to good causes.”

“True,” she concedes. “Sarah mentioned this year’s proceeds are funding literacy programs?”

“And hockey equipment for underserved schools,” I add. “The team matches all donations.”

“Impressive.”

“We’re not complete Neanderthals,” I say with mock offense. “Some of us can even read books without moving our lips.”

She laughs, and the sound draws attention from a nearby group of players. I recognize Jensen, our goalie, among them, and he raises his glass in greeting before making his way over.

“Carter!” he calls, clapping me on the shoulder with enough force to make me grateful I’m not holding my drink in that hand. “You clean up almost like a real person.”

“Thanks,” I reply dryly. “Always appreciate your deeply insightful compliments.”

Jensen grins, then turns his attention to Elliot. “And you must be the famous Elliot. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“All lies, I’m sure,” she says, offering her hand.

“Depends on who’s doing the talking,” Jensen replies, shaking it. “Carter here says you’re brilliant and intimidating. Tommy says you once made his wife snort wine through her nose with a single comment about the Bachelor.”

Elliot’s eyebrows rise. “Both accurate, though the wine incident was unintentional.”

“The best ones usually are,” Jensen agrees. His eyes flicker with recognition, and I realize he’s placing her. “You used to come to games a few years back, right?”

“Yes,” Elliot says simply, her smile never wavering though I feel her tense beside me. “That was a different lifetime.”

Jensen, bless him, picks up on her discomfort immediately. “Well, you picked a better defenseman this time around. Carter here only falls down on the ice about sixty percent of the time.”

“Forty percent, tops,” I protest, grateful for his quick pivot.

“The ankle incident suggests otherwise,” Elliot chimes in, relaxing slightly.

“Oh god, he told you about that?” Jensen looks delighted. “Did he mention he cried in the locker room afterward?”

“I did not cry,” I correct indignantly. “My eyes watered from pain. There’s a difference.”

“He was practically writing poetry about the injustice of shot blocks and ankle bones,” Jensen continues, clearly enjoying himself. “Very dramatic.”

“I’m learning so much about you tonight, Carter,” Elliot says, eyes dancing with amusement.

“All lies,” I insist. “Jensen is still bitter because I scored on him in practice yesterday.”

“Once,” Jensen scoffs. “Out of what, thirty shots?”

“Quality over quantity.”

Jensen laughs, then glances over his shoulder as someone calls his name. “Duty calls. The team owner wants to show me off to some sponsors. Nice meeting you, Elliot. Don’t believe anything Carter tells you about his hockey skills.”

As he walks away, Elliot looks up at me with a small smile. “I like him.”

“Jensen’s one of the good ones,” I agree. “Though if you tell him I said that, I’ll deny it completely.”

“Your secret man-crush is safe with me.”

I’m about to retort when I notice her gaze shift over my shoulder, her expression cooling several degrees. I turn to see what’s caught her attention.

“Hockey wives?” I guess.

“And girlfriends,” she confirms. “The not-so-subtle judgment committee.”

“Want to give them something to really talk about?” I ask, nodding toward the cluster of women watching us with poorly disguised interest. “I could dip you dramatically right here on the dance floor.”

Elliot’s eyes widen, but instead of the immediate refusal I expect, something playful flickers across her expression.

“And scandalize them all in the process?” She leans closer, her voice dropping to a whisper that sends a shiver down my spine. “They think I’m a heartbroken spinster after the divorce.”

“All the more reason to shatter the narrative,” I murmur, allowing my fingers to press more firmly against her. The subtle curve of her waist beneath my palm is intoxicating.

“Careful, Carter,” she warns, but there’s no real resistance in her tone. Her hand slides to my shoulder, fingers grazing the nape of my neck in a way that makes it difficult to remember we’re in a room full of people.

“People might think you’re marking your territory.”

The suggestion sends a pulse of possessive heat through me. “Would that be such a bad thing?”

“Depends.” Her fingers continue their maddening exploration of my hairline. “Are you worth being marked by?”

God, this woman. Every time I think I have her figured out, she surprises me again. The carefully composed technical editor revealing flashes of boldness that leave me breathless.

I draw her marginally closer, “I’ve been told I have excellent... territorial skills.”

“Is that so?” Her eyes dance with challenge. “That claim sounds like all talk.”

“I’m more than happy show action.” I lower my voice, letting my lips brush her ear as I speak. “Though I’m not sure the middle of the gala is the appropriate venue.”

“Scared of causing a scene, hockey boy?”

“Scared of starting something I won’t be able to finish,” I correct, letting my hand skim lower on her back, just shy of inappropriate. “Because once I dip you, Elliot Waltman, you might find yourself thoroughly and completely...” I pause, enjoying the anticipation on her face, “...danced with.”

A laugh escapes her, the sound making my chest tighten with something dangerously close to adoration. “That was terrible.”

“Made you laugh, though.” I can’t help the pride that surges through me at having broken through her careful composure. “Rain check on the dipping? Maybe somewhere more private where I can show you my full repertoire of moves?”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“And you’re not saying no.” I trace small circles at the base of her spine, feeling her subtle lean into my touch. “I consider that progress.”

The music shifts again, and she moves fractionally closer, surprising me with her boldness. “One dance at a time, Carter. But I’m not opposed to reviewing your... technique... at a later date.”

I can’t stop the slow smile that spreads across my face. With anyone else, this would be just flirting, just a dance. But with Elliot—brilliant, cautious, breathtaking Elliot—every inch closer feels like a victory. Every smile freely given feels like a gift.

“I’ll hold you to that, Waltman,” I promise, leading her through another turn, already counting the minutes until “later” arrives.

We move together in silence for a few minutes, as I memorize the way she feels in my arms.

“You really do look beautiful tonight,” I say quietly. “I should have said that more eloquently when I picked you up.”

“You said ‘wow’ and then stared at me for a solid ten seconds,” she recalls, amusement in her voice. “It was actually quite flattering.”

“Good. Because my brain genuinely short-circuited.”

“Such a charmer, Carter.”

“Only with you.”

Her eyes meet mine, something vulnerable flickering in their depths. “Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I might start believing them.”

The simple honesty in her voice makes my heart clench. “Would that be so bad?”

Before she can answer, I notice two players watching us from the edge of the dance floor—Matthews and Kelly, the two Jason loyalists Tommy warned us about. They’re not even trying to hide their staring, and Matthews is already on his phone, no doubt texting updates to Miami.

Elliot follows my gaze and stiffens slightly in my arms. “Ah. The surveillance team has arrived.”

“Ignore them,” I suggest. “They’re just looking for gossip.”

“Which they’ll report directly to Jason.” She sighs. “I should have expected this.”

“Does it bother you?” I ask carefully. “That he’ll know you’re here? With me?”

She considers this for a moment. “Not that he’ll know,” she says finally. “But I hate that he still has this... network. These people watching me and reporting back.”

“We could give them a real show,” I suggest, only half-joking. “I could dramatically declare my undying love. Or pretend to propose. Really give them something to text about.”

She laughs despite herself. “As entertaining as that would be, I think we should aim for a more strategic approach.”

“Strategic how?”

“Let them see exactly what we want them to see,” she says, her expression turning thoughtful. “A woman enjoying herself at a charity event with a handsome man. Nothing more, nothing less. Nothing that would give Jason the satisfaction of thinking I’m either pining for him or trying to make him jealous.”

I nod, impressed by her approach. “So, we’re going for the ‘living well is the best revenge’ angle?”

“Exactly.” She smiles up at me, and it feels like a private joke between us. “Besides, anything they report will be filtered through their own perceptions anyway. Might as well give them the classiest version possible.”

“I can do classy,” I assure her. “I own cufflinks and everything.”

“Rental cufflinks don’t count, Carter.”

“They’re actually Tommy’s,” I admit. “But the principle stands.”

She laughs again, and I notice Matthews frown at the sound, clearly displeased to see her enjoying herself. Good.

As the song ends, Elliot steps back slightly, maintaining a friendly but not intimate distance. “Shall we check out the silent auction? If I don’t bid on at least one item, Sarah will never forgive me.”

“Lead the way,” I agree, letting her set the pace both literally and figuratively.

The auction tables are busy with guests writing bids and examining the various offerings. I spot Melissa Cooper and two other hockey wives watching our approach with undisguised interest.

“Incoming,” I murmur. “Your three o’clock.”

“I see them,” Elliot replies quietly. “Just follow my lead.”

“Always.”

Melissa intercepts us before we reach the first table, her smile sharp and practiced. “Elliot! You look fabulous. That color is perfect on you.”

“Thank you, Melissa,” Elliot says with a warmth I know is entirely fabricated. “You remember Brody Carter? He was with the team a few years back before being traded.”

“Of course,” Melissa turns her calculating gaze to me. “Welcome back to Phoenix, Brody. I’m sure Jason will be thrilled to hear you’ve returned.”

The dig doesn’t escape either of us. I feel Elliot tense beside me but she doesn’t take the bait.

“I’ve been trying to convince Elliot to join our monthly brunch,” Melissa continues, addressing me as if Elliot isn’t standing right there. “The wives and girlfriends get together at La Maison. Very exclusive.”

“Sounds lovely,” I say neutrally. “Though Elliot’s schedule is pretty packed with her editing work.”

“Of course,” Melissa’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Being a working girl and all.”

I bristle at the condescension in her tone, but Elliot places a calming hand on my arm.

“I’m actually expanding my client base,” she says smoothly. “Just landed a contract with that tech startup downtown. The hours are demanding but the work is fascinating.”

Melissa’s smile falters slightly, unprepared for Elliot’s confident response. “How... fulfilling for you.”

“It is,” Elliot agrees pleasantly. “Career satisfaction is so important, don’t you think? Oh, look at this auction item—weekend cooking class with Chef Morales! Brody, didn’t you mention wanting to improve your pasta techniques?”

Her expert pivot leaves Melissa momentarily off-balance, and I take the cue gratefully. “Absolutely. My bolognese needs work.”

“You cook?” asks one of the other wives—Karen something, I think. Her tone suggests she finds this slightly emasculating.

“He’s quite good, actually,” Elliot interjects before I can respond. “Made an incredible risotto last week.”

The complete fabrication startles a laugh out of me, which I quickly turn into a cough. “Elliot’s being generous.”

“How modern,” Melissa comments, her tone making it clear she doesn’t consider this a compliment. “Jason never set foot in the kitchen, did he, Elliot?”

“No,” Elliot agrees calmly. “He had many talents, but cooking wasn’t one of them.”

The diplomatic response seems to disappoint Melissa, who was clearly fishing for something more provocative. Before she can try again, Sarah appears like a guardian angel.

“Elliot! There you are. I need your expertise on the book collection auction item. The bidding has stalled.” She nods to the wives. “Ladies, if you’ll excuse us? Charity emergency.”

Sarah practically drags us away, leaving the trio of wives staring after us with varying degrees of frustration.

“Thank you,” Elliot murmurs once we’re out of earshot. “Melissa was just getting warmed up.”

“I could tell,” Sarah says grimly. “She’s been on the prowl all evening. Half the wives are Team Jason, half are Team Elliot.”

“There are teams?” Elliot asks, pained.

“Hockey wives love drama almost as much as they love Botox,” Sarah confirms. “And your appearance tonight with Tall, Dark, and Hockey over here—” she jerks a thumb at me, “—has the gossip mill working overtime.”

“Fantastic,” Elliot mutters. “Just what I wanted.”

“You handled Melissa like a pro,” I offer, “Very classy.”

“Years of practice,” she says with a sigh. “Though I’d forgotten how exhausting it is, measuring every word, anticipating every trap.”

Sarah squeezes her arm sympathetically. “You’re doing amazing. And looking hot while doing it, which is really the best revenge.”

This draws a genuine smile from Elliot. “Thanks, Sarah.”

“Now, about that book auction—I wasn’t entirely making that up. The bidding really has stalled, and I need someone who looks like they know literature to drum up interest.”

“Happy to help,” Elliot agrees, visibly relieved to have a purposeful task.

As Sarah leads us to the auction tables, I notice Matthews and Kelly have positioned themselves to keep us in view, still watching. They’re not our only audience—several other players and their partners are clearly monitoring Elliot’s movements through the room, some with curiosity, others with less friendly expressions.

It’s strange seeing this side of hockey culture—the politics, the alliances, the power plays. On the ice, things are more straightforward: you’re either with your team or against them. Here, the lines are blurred, and Elliot seems to be navigating a complex web of loyalties and grudges that existed long before I returned to Phoenix.

For the next hour, we make our way through the gala, stopping to chat with sponsors, bid on auction items (I put in for the cooking class, while Elliot bids on the book collection), and generally project an image of casual comfort that I know is taking considerable effort on Elliot’s part.

“How are you holding up?” I ask when we find a moment alone near the dessert table.

“Surprisingly okay,” she admits, selecting a miniature cheesecake. “Though I’ve mentally catalogued sixteen grammatical errors in conversation and three crimes against fashion.”

“Only three?”

“The night is still young,” she says solemnly. “And the open bar is still, well, open.”

I laugh, earning curious glances from nearby guests. “You’re something else, Waltman.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It absolutely is.”

Our moment of peace is interrupted when Matthews approaches, his smile not reaching his eyes.

“Carter,” he greets, clapping me on the shoulder forcefully. “Good to have you back in Phoenix, man. Though I’m surprised you ended up here of all places.”

The implication is clear: surprised you’re at the gala with Jason’s ex-wife. I keep my expression neutral. “Good to be back. The team’s got a solid lineup this season.”

“Yeah, yeah.” His attention shifts to Elliot. “And Elliot. Been a while since we’ve seen you at team events.”

“I’ve been busy,” she replies evenly. “Work keeps me occupied.”

“I’m sure,” he says, skepticism evident. “Jay mentioned you’d gone full hermit after the divorce.”

The casual mention of Jason—”Jay”—and the subtle dig aren’t lost on either of us. Elliot’s posture straightens incrementally.

“Not a hermit,” she corrects pleasantly. “Just selective about which events I attend.”

“And who you attend them with,” Matthews adds, glancing meaningfully at me.

“Matthews,” I interject, keeping my tone light but firm. “Did you need something specific? Or just checking in?”

He shrugs, clearly enjoying the tension he’s creating. “Just being friendly. Jay’s an old friend. We still talk regularly.”

“How nice for you both,” Elliot says, her smile never faltering though I catch the slight edge in her voice. “Please give him my regards when you inevitably text him about seeing me tonight.”

He has the grace to look momentarily abashed at being called out. “Just making conversation.”

“Of course you are,” she agrees, tone making it clear she doesn’t believe him for a second. “If you’ll excuse us, I believe they’re announcing the auction winners soon.”

She places her hand on my arm, a clear signal for us to exit this conversation. I follow her lead, nodding curtly to Matthews as we walk away.

“Well, that was subtle,” I mutter once we’re out of earshot.

“About as subtle as a slap shot to the face,” she agrees with a sigh. “I’d forgotten how exhausting this all is.”

“We can leave,” I offer again. “Say the word and we’re gone.”

She considers this for a moment, then shakes her head. “No. I’m not giving them the satisfaction of running me off.” She squares her shoulders. “Besides, I really want to know if I won that book collection.”

“That’s my girl,” I say without thinking, then freeze, worried I’ve overstepped.

But Elliot just gives me a small, warm smile. “Your girl, huh?”

“Figure of speech,” I backtrack quickly.

“Mmm-hmm.” Her eyes are twinkling now. “Very convincing.”

Before I can dig myself any deeper, the event coordinator announces that the auction is closing in five minutes. Elliot and I make our way back to the bidding tables, where Sarah is efficiently organizing the bid sheets.

“Any last bids?” she asks briskly. “The cooking class is neck-and-neck.”

I check my bid and see someone has outbid me by a hundred dollars. “Damn.”

“Last chance to assert your culinary dominance,” Elliot teases.

“You’re a bad influence,” I tell her, but I grab the pen and add another bid anyway.

As we wait for the final auction results, Tommy joins us, champagne in hand. “Having fun?”

“Defining ‘fun’ pretty loosely there, Harrington,” Elliot replies, but she’s smiling.

“That’s the spirit.” He glances around the room. “I see the Matthews-Kelly surveillance team has been active.”

“Very,” I confirm. “Subtle as a freight train.”

“Jason loyalists till the end,” Tommy says with a grimace. “Never understood why. The guy’s a tool.”

“Charming tool,” Elliot corrects. “That’s his superpower. When he wants something from you, he makes you feel like the most important person in the room.”

“And when he doesn’t want something from you?” I ask, curious about this insight into her ex.

“Then you cease to exist,” she says simply.

The matter-of-fact way she says this makes something in my chest tighten. Before I can respond, the event coordinator begins announcing auction winners. I’m surprised and pleased to learn I’ve won the cooking class—apparently my final bid went unchallenged.

“Looks like you’ll be perfecting that bolognese after all,” Elliot comments as I collect my certificate.

“The risotto I supposedly made for you last week set a high bar,” I remind her with a grin.

“Oh right. My fictional endorsement.” She laughs. “I should be more careful with my fabrications.”

“I don’t know, I thought it was pretty effective. Karen’s face when you said I cook was priceless.”

“It’s the twenty-first century. Of course you cook.”

“Bold assumption, Waltman.”

“Fine, you cook hockey puck pancakes and protein shakes. Better?”

“Much more accurate,” I admit. “Though I really do make decent bolognese.”

“Prove it,” she challenges.

“Is that an invitation to cook for you?”

She considers this, head tilted slightly. “Maybe it is.”

Before I can process the implications of this development, Sarah approaches with a triumphant expression. “Good news, Elliot! You won the book collection.”

“What?” Elliot looks genuinely surprised. “But I was outbid when I checked last.”

“Mysterious anonymous donor added to your bid at the last minute,” Sarah says, not even attempting to look innocent.

“Sarah...”

“What? It wasn’t me.” Sarah’s expression is pure innocence. “Though the handwriting on the bid sheet does look suspiciously like Tommy’s...”

Elliot turns to me with narrowed eyes. “Did you put Tommy up to this?”

“I plead the fifth,” I say, trying to look as innocent as Sarah.

“You’re both impossible,” she sighs, but her smile gives her away. “Thank you. It’s a wonderful collection.”

“Consider it a ‘congratulations on surviving your return to hockey society’ gift,” I tell her.

“Is that a standard gift-giving occasion?”

“It should be. Right up there with birthdays and anniversaries.”

As the evening begins to wind down, with auction winners collecting their prizes and guests starting to depart, I find myself reluctant for the night to end. Despite the watchful eyes and subtle digs from Jason’s allies, it’s been a remarkable evening—mainly because of the woman beside me, who handled everything with grace and strength.

“Ready to head out?” I ask as she stifles a yawn behind her hand.

“More than ready,” she admits. “These heels were a mistake after hour three.”

“I could carry you,” I offer with exaggerated gallantry.

“Try it and die, Carter.”

“Just a suggestion.” I place my hand at the small of her back as we say our goodbyes to Sarah and Tommy, both of whom look disgustingly pleased with how the evening has gone.

“I expect full details tomorrow,” Sarah tells Elliot, hugging her tightly. “Every juicy bit.”

“You’ll get the PG version,” Elliot promises.

“I’ll get the full director’s cut or I’ll tell Brody about the karaoke incident in Vegas,” Sarah counters.

Elliot narrows her eyes. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me,” Sarah says with a wicked grin.

“Fine. Coffee tomorrow. Limited details.”

“I’ll take it!”

We make our escape before Sarah can negotiate further terms, stepping out into the cool night air. Elliot sighs with relief as we walk toward the valet stand.

“That wasn’t nearly as terrible as I expected,” she admits.

“High praise indeed,” I laugh. “Though ‘not terrible’ seems to be your standard compliment.”

“I’m working on expanding my positive vocabulary,” she says primly. “Maybe someday I’ll upgrade you to ‘moderately enjoyable.’”

“Be still my heart.”

The valet brings my car around, and I open the passenger door for Elliot, who sinks into the seat with a grateful sigh. As I slide behind the wheel, I glance over at her—slightly disheveled after the long evening, a few strands of hair escaping her careful styling, cheeks flushed from champagne and conversation.

She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

“You’re staring again,” she notes without opening her eyes.

“Just admiring the view,” I say honestly.

She turns to look at me, her expression soft in the dim light. “Thank you for tonight. For being my backup with Wilson and the hockey wives. For not running when things got awkward.”

“I wouldn’t dream of running,” I tell her. “Not when I’m finally getting to spend time with you outside of taco trucks and coffee shops.”

She smiles, something shy in her expression that I haven’t seen before. “It was... nice. Having you there.”

“Just nice?” I tease gently.

“Better than nice,” she amends. “Though don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.”

The drive back to our townhomes is companionable, Elliot occasionally pointing out particularly terrible drivers. When we arrive, I walk her to her door, hyperaware that we’ve reached the classic end-of-date moment.

“So,” she says, turning to face me on her doorstep. “That happened.”

“It did indeed.” I step closer, relieved when she doesn’t back away. “Any regrets?”

“About the gala? Or showing up with you and scandalizing half the hockey wives?”

“Any of the above. All of the above.”

She considers for a moment. “No regrets,” she says finally. “Though I might regret these shoes tomorrow when my feet are screaming.”

“Worth it, though,” I suggest. “You looked amazing.”

“I did, didn’t I?” She grins, confident in a way I haven’t seen before. “And you clean up pretty well yourself, Carter. The bow tie was a nice touch.”

“You tied it perfectly,” I remind her. “I take no credit.”

“True. I am exceptionally talented.”

“Modest, too.”

We’re standing close now, the air between us charged with possibility. I want to kiss her—desperately—but I also want to let her set the pace. After tonight, after facing down her past through its proxies, she deserves to control what happens next.

As if reading my thoughts, she reaches up and adjusts my bow tie, her fingers lingering. “I had fun tonight,” she says quietly. “Despite everything. Because of you.”

“I had fun too,” I reply, voice rough. “Also because of you.”

Her eyes meet mine, and there’s a certainty in them that makes my heart race. “Would it be terribly forward of me to invite you in for coffee?”

“At midnight?” I raise an eyebrow. “That seems ill-advised from a caffeine perspective.”

“I didn’t say I was actually offering coffee, Carter.” Her tone is dry but her eyes are sparkling.

“Oh.” Understanding dawns. “ Oh .”

She laughs at my expression. “Don’t look so shocked. I’m thirty-six, not dead.”

“No shock,” I assure her quickly. “Just... making sure I’m not misinterpreting.”

“You’re not,” she confirms, taking a step closer. “Though to be clear, I’m not suggesting... everything. Just... coffee. Which isn’t actually coffee.”

“Of course,” I say seriously. “Not-coffee. I’m an expert in not-coffee.”

“Are you now?”

“Well, I’ve had it before,” I inform her. “Once or twice.”

She laughs again, the sound like music to my ears. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Part of my charm.”

“I suppose it is,” she agrees, reaching for her keys. “So? Not-coffee?”

I pretend to consider this, as if there’s any universe where I’d say no. “I think I could be persuaded.”

“Good.” She unlocks her door, then turns back to me with a smile that makes my knees weak. “Because I’ve been thinking about kissing you since about halfway through that first dance, and I’d like to do it without an audience of nosy hockey players and their partners.”

“I am one hundred percent on board with this plan,” I assure her fervently.