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brODY

T he walk from Elliot’s front door to mine takes exactly twelve steps. I count each one, her taste still lingering on my lips, the memory of her body against mine vivid as the moment her expression shifted from desire to dismay. Twelve steps that feel like miles.

Inside my townhouse, the silence is oppressive after the emotional intensity of Elliot’s place. The desert night air still clings to my skin as I step into the artificially cooled interior. I yank off my bow tie, tossing it onto the coffee table with more force than necessary. The tux jacket follows, then the cufflinks that clatter against the hardwood.

“Brilliant, Carter,” I mutter to the empty room. “Three years waiting for a chance with her, and you blow it in one night.”

I sink onto the couch, head in my hands. Not telling Elliot about my decision to move here was a mistake. I see that now, with painful clarity. I didn’t move here to pressure her or manipulate her—I moved here because I couldn’t stop wondering what might have been if circumstances had been different. If I hadn’t been traded to Boston after that season. If she hadn’t been married to Jason.

The memory of our kiss sends a fresh wave of frustration through me. It was perfect—the softness of her lips, the little sound she made when I pulled her closer, the way her hands moved into my hair. Everything I’d imagined and more.

I pull out my phone, staring at the calendar notification that popped up earlier—a reminder that Miami comes to town next week. Jason Martinez and his team, eight days away. Perfect timing. I swipe it away and draft a message to Elliot instead.

I type and delete several versions, nothing seems right. Too casual, too intense, too desperate. Finally, I settle on something simple.

I’m sorry. I should have told you from the beginning. But everything else—every moment between us—has been real. I promise.

I hit send before I can overthink it, then let my head fall back against the couch, eyes closed. The ball is in her court now. She asked for time to think, and I need to respect that, no matter how much it kills me to wait.

The silence of the house presses in again. I stand abruptly and head to my home gym setup in the spare bedroom. It’s not fancy but it’ll do. I strip down to my undershirt and dress pants, cranking up the small oscillating fan that barely combats the lingering heat trapped in this corner of the house.

The physical exertion will clear my head. It always has.

I throw myself into a circuit of exercises, movement replacing thought. Push-ups that burn my shoulders. Pull-ups that strain my arms. Heavy dumbbells that make my legs shake with each lunge. Sweat soaks through my undershirt within minutes—the dry Phoenix heat making it evaporate almost instantly, an endless cycle of perspiration that never provides relief.

Coach’s voice echoes in my head: Focus, Carter. Miami’s coming in hot next week and I need your head in the game. A reminder of the stakes beyond my personal life. The team’s fighting for playoff position, and here I am, distracted by relationship drama like a rookie.

The dumbbells hit the floor with a heavy thud. I’m gasping for breath, sweat dripping into my eyes. It didn’t work. Despite the physical exhaustion, my mind is still fixed on Elliot. On what I should have said. On whether I’ve lost my chance before we even really started.

I grab my phone from where I tossed it on the bench, checking to see if she’s responded. Nothing yet. She asked for time to think, and ‘time’ probably means more than forty minutes.

I type out another message, something more light-hearted.

For what it’s worth, that was the best not-coffee I’ve ever had.

It’s a risk, trying for humor when she’s probably still processing her anger. But it’s also honest—kissing her was incredible, even if the aftermath wasn’t.

Just when I’m about to give up, a response comes through.

Go to sleep, Carter.

Not exactly forgiveness, but not ‘never speak to me again’ either. I’ll take it.

Yes, ma’am. Sweet dreams, Elliot.

I set the phone down, a small weight lifting from my chest. Communication. It’s a start.

I need a shower—I’m drenched in sweat and still half-dressed in formal wear. I catch sight of myself in the mirror—flushed, disheveled, eyes a little wild. This is what Elliot Waltman does to me. Unravels me completely.

The water hits my skin and I close my eyes, letting it wash over my shoulders. As the physical tension begins to ease, my mind wanders inexorably back to Elliot’s living room, to her couch, to the feel of her beneath me as we kissed. To the way her dress had ridden up, exposing the smooth skin of her thighs.

My body responds immediately to the memory, desire coiling low in my stomach. I groan, pressing my forehead against the cool tile. This is the last thing I need right now—to want her even more than I already do.

But the memory persists, vivid and insistent. The softness of her lips. The way she tasted and the curve of her waist under my palm.

I wrap a hand around myself, giving in to the need for release. Fantasy is all I have right now.

In my mind, there’s no confession, no sudden shock in her eyes. Just the continued exploration of her body with my hands, my mouth. I imagine her here with me, water sluicing over both our bodies, her back pressed against the tile as I lift her, her legs wrapping around my waist.

I groan her name out loud, the sound echoing in the enclosed space.

My fantasy is vivid—her hands on my chest, my shoulders, tangling in my hair. The heat of her mouth on my neck, my collarbone. The slick glide of our bodies together, the way she might gasp my name as I push into her.

I brace my free hand against the shower wall, my movements growing more urgent. I’m not going to last long, not with these images flooding my mind. Not with the memory of how she actually felt in my arms just an hour ago.

In my fantasy, Elliot arches against me, her nails digging into my shoulders, urging me on. I imagine the sounds she might make—soft gasps and quiet moans, my name on her lips. I picture the flush spreading across her chest, the way her head might fall back against the tile as pleasure overtakes her.

It’s this image—Elliot coming undone in my arms—that finally pushes me over the edge. Release hits me with unexpected intensity, pleasure crashing through me in waves as I spill into my hand, her name a whispered prayer on my lips.

For a moment, the world narrows to sensation alone—no regrets, no anxiety, no twelve steps separating me from what I want most.

Then reality returns, and I’m just a guy standing alone in his shower, wanting something he might have permanently screwed up his chance to have.

I stay under the spray until the water begins to cool, then finish washing up mechanically. The physical release has taken the edge off, but the underlying anxiety remains. Will she want to talk tomorrow? Or have I pushed her away for good?

Wrapped in a towel, I pad to the bedroom and pull on sweats and a t-shirt. My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since the gala. The contents of my refrigerator are uninspiring—some eggs, half a bell pepper turning wrinkly at the edges, a container of Greek yogurt, and various condiments.

I’m whisking eggs when my phone buzzes. I nearly drop the bowl in my haste to check it, heart hammering.

I’m not mad that you knew I lived here. I’m unsettled that you kept it from me. There’s a difference.

I stare at the message. This is important—she’s making a distinction that matters to her. Not the knowledge itself, but the concealment of it.

I know. And you’re right. I should have told you. I was afraid you’d think exactly what you’re thinking now—that I was being creepy or manipulative. But keeping it from you was worse. I’m sorry, Elliot. Genuinely sorry.

I hold my breath as I wait for her response.

Can we talk tomorrow?

The relief is so intense I have to sit down. She wants to talk. Tomorrow.

Absolutely. Whenever you’re ready. I’m not going anywhere.

I hit send, then realize how that might sound.

Except to practice. I have practice at 10. But other than that, I’m around. For talking. Or listening. Or standing there awkwardly while you yell at me. Whatever you need.

Goodnight, Brody.

I can’t help pushing my luck a little.

Goodnight, Elliot. Even if you decide you never want to see me again (please don’t decide that), meeting you—the real you, not just my memory of you—has been worth it.

It’s maybe too honest, too vulnerable. But after tonight’s disaster, I’m done playing it safe.

You’re not helping your case by being sweet right now.

I grin at my phone like an idiot.

Sorry. I’ll try to be more of a jerk tomorrow. Practice scowling in the mirror and everything.

Goodnight, Carter.

I can’t resist one final push.

Goodnight, Waltman. (But I’m still not sorry about the not-coffee part. That was epic.)

There’s no response, but I don’t need one. The fact that she’s still texting me at all is more than I dared hope for.

I return to the kitchen, finishing my neglected omelet. Through the small window above my sink, I can see the glow of Phoenix’s downtown lights against the night sky. As I sit at my kitchen island, forking bites of egg and slightly withered pepper, my mind drifts to the season ahead. Miami on Friday. Our playoff position hanging in the balance. Jason Martinez, smug and successful, coming to town just as I’m trying to convince his ex-wife to give me a chance.

But as I head to bed, bone-tired but calmer than before, I feel something that had been missing since I left Elliot’s townhouse: hope.

She’s willing to talk tomorrow. She made the distinction between my knowledge and my secrecy. She hasn’t shut the door completely.

My phone lights up with a final notification—not from Elliot, but from the team app. A reminder about Miami’s arrival next week, with a prominent photo of Jason Martinez celebrating his recent hat trick. I turn the phone face-down on my nightstand.

One challenge at a time.

My mind returns to those twelve steps between our doors. Tonight they feel like an unbridgeable chasm. But maybe tomorrow they’ll just be twelve steps again.

And maybe, eventually, she’ll meet me halfway.