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ELLIOT

T he problem isn’t that he knew I lived here. It’s not even that he might have chosen this location partly because of that knowledge. The problem is that it feels like I’ve lost control of the narrative—like there’s a story being written that I’m not fully aware of.

And after Jason, I promised myself I’d never again be a character in someone else’s story without reading the full script first.

My phone buzzes on the coffee table. I know without looking that it’s him.

I stare at his message, unsure how to respond. Part of me wants to text back immediately, to tell him it’s okay, that I’m just overreacting. Another part wants to block his number and pretend none of this ever happened.

I pick up the phone, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. What exactly am I upset about? That he was interested enough to move to a complex where I lived? That he might have had intentions I wasn’t aware of?

Or is it that I’m scared? Scared of how quickly he’s broken through the careful defenses I’ve built, scared of how much I want him despite all my rational objections.

With a sigh, I set the phone down without responding and head to the bathroom.

“This is what happens when you let hockey boys into your life,” I tell my reflection sternly. “They mess up your hair and your common sense.”

My reflection offers no helpful response, just shows me a woman with smudged makeup and kiss-swollen lips I barely recognize.

I grab a makeup wipe and begin methodically removing the evidence of the evening—the mascara, the subtle eyeshadow Sarah insisted would ‘make my eyes pop,’ the lipstick now smudged beyond recognition. The cool cloth feels good against my flushed skin, especially with the air conditioning struggling against the unseasonable Phoenix spring heat wave.

It’s a ritual I find comforting, this transformation back into myself. Except tonight, I’m not entirely sure who that is anymore. The woman who carefully applied makeup hours ago for a hockey charity gala seems like a stranger—someone bolder, more willing to take risks than the person I’ve been for the past three years.

Three years of careful reconstruction, of building a life that made sense after the chaos of my divorce, and all it took was a few weeks of Brody Carter to make me question everything.

I’m not being fair, though. It wasn’t just Brody. It was me too—inviting him in tonight, kissing him back with an enthusiasm that still makes me blush to recall, telling him I’d been wanting to kiss him since our dance. I was an active participant, not some passive character being manipulated.

Unless that’s what he wanted me to think.

God, I’m paranoid. This is what Jason did to me—made me doubt my own perceptions, my own agency. I remember finding those text messages on his phone, how he convinced me they were nothing, how he made me feel crazy for questioning him. I refuse to let that damage infect whatever this is with Brody.

But what is this, exactly? A fling? A rebound? A midlife crisis with a hot younger man?

I strip off my dress, hanging it carefully in the closet, and pull on my most comfortable pajamas—an ancient t-shirt from a writers conference and flannel pants. Decidedly unsexy, but comforting in their familiarity.

Tomorrow I’ll be rational Elliot again, the one who doesn’t invite hockey players in for ‘not-coffee’ or make out on couches like a teenager.

As I brush my teeth, another text comes through.

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

Despite everything, I feel a smile tugging at my lips. The man is impossible.

I set the phone down on my nightstand, turning off the lamp and settling into bed. My lips still tingle from his kisses, a phantom sensation that no amount of rational thinking can erase.

Sweet dreams indeed.

* * *

The ceiling offers no answers as I stare up at it in the dark. Only a canvas for my churning thoughts to project onto. Outside, a coyote howls somewhere in the desert preserve beyond our complex—one of those quintessential Phoenix sounds that still feels exotic to me even after years here.

I shift restlessly under the covers, my body humming with an energy that refuses to dissipate despite my mental exhaustion. The memory of Brody’s hands on me, the pressure of his body against mine on the couch, keeps replaying in vivid detail.

My skin feels too sensitive, too aware. I close my eyes, determined to sleep, but that only makes the sensory memories more intense—the gentle rasp of his stubble against my neck, the firm pressure of his fingers on my thigh, the heat of his mouth.

“Stop it,” I whisper to myself in the darkness. “Just go to sleep.”

But my body isn’t listening to my rational mind. There’s an ache building, a restless need I haven’t felt in far too long.

Three years of self-imposed celibacy after Jason—three years of redirecting my energy into work, into rebuilding, into anything but this desperate wanting—and all it took was twenty minutes with Brody Carter to demolish my carefully constructed walls.

I roll onto my stomach, pressing my face into the pillow. But that position only makes me more aware of the heaviness in my breasts, the tension coiling low in my abdomen. I can almost feel the weight of him above me again, the way he’d pressed me into the couch cushions.

“This is ridiculous,” I mutter, flipping onto my back again. I’m a grown woman, not some teenager pining after her first kiss.

And yet.

My hand drifts down almost of its own accord, sliding beneath the waistband of my flannel pants. I should stop. I should go take a cold shower or read a technical manual or do literally anything besides touch myself while thinking about my neighbor.

But I don’t stop.

Instead, I let my eyes drift closed again, surrendering to the memory of Brody’s kiss. In my mind, there was no awkward revelation, no abrupt ending. Just the continued exploration of each other, his hands sliding higher up my thighs, under my dress.

I gasp softly as my fingers find slick heat, evidence of just how affected I still am by what happened earlier. Slow circles, teasing myself the way I imagine he might—gentle at first, learning what I like, what makes me respond.

In my fantasy, he’s murmuring against my neck, words of appreciation, of desire. His voice with that slight Boston accent, roughened with want. Telling me how beautiful I am, how much he’s thought about this. About me.

I arch into my own touch, free hand clutching at the sheets as the pleasure builds. It’s been so long since I’ve felt this way—not just physically aroused, but emotionally engaged, mentally present in my own body instead of going through the motions.

The fantasy shifts, grows bolder. In my mind, I’m straddling him on the couch, his hands on my hips guiding me. I can see his expression so clearly—those blue eyes darkened with desire, that perfect mouth slightly parted, watching me with that intense focus that makes me feel like the only woman in the world.

I whisper his name into the darkness, it’s both a confession and a surrender.

When release finally comes, it catches me by surprise—intense and overwhelming after so long without. I muffle a cry against my free hand, body arching off the bed, pleasure washing through me in waves.

For a few blissful moments, my mind is empty of everything but sensation. No anxiety, no overthinking, no weighing of pros and cons. Just pure, physical relief.

Then reality crashes back. I’m alone in my bed, hand still between my legs, having just fantasized about the man whose revelation hours earlier sent me into an emotional tailspin.

“Well done, Elliot,” I mutter to myself, withdrawing my hand and staring up at the ceiling again. “Very mature.”

But the orgasm has done what hours of mental gymnastics couldn’t—cleared my head enough to see through the tangle of emotions to something resembling clarity.

I’m not really angry at Brody for knowing I lived here before he moved in. That’s not the core issue. What unsettles me is that he kept it from me, making decisions that affected our interactions based on information I didn’t have.

It’s about control of my own narrative. About agency. About not being blindsided again by a man I’m starting to care about.

With a frustrated sigh, I reach for my phone again. It’s nearly 2 AM now—too late for rational decisions, too early for conversation. But I find myself typing anyway.

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

I hit send before I can overthink it, then immediately regret it. He’s probably asleep by now. This should happen in person, not over text when I’m emotionally raw and confused.

But my phone buzzes almost immediately.

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 stare at his response, trying to read between the lines. It sounds sincere. It sounds like him and he’s making it very hard to maintain my righteous indignation.

I put the phone down with a groan, burying my face in my pillow. How am I supposed to be appropriately cautious when he says things like that? When he makes me laugh even when I’m trying to be upset with him?

This is exactly how it starts—the charm, the attention, the way he makes me feel seen and understood. Jason was like this in the beginning too. Different style, same outcome: me, falling harder than I should, faster than is wise.

But even as I think it, I know it’s not quite true. Jason never saw me—not really. He saw a smart, presentable woman who would look good on his arm at team events and not embarrass him in front of management. He liked that I was independent, not because it was good for me, but because it meant he didn’t have to worry about me while he was pursuing his own interests (and other women, as it turned out).

Brody seems to see me—the real me, with all my sharp edges and defensive mechanisms and passionate opinions about literature. He remembers details. He asks questions and actually listens to the answers. He notices when I’m uncomfortable and offers exits.

But he also withheld information. Made a decision that affected me without my knowledge or consent.

It’s not the same as Jason’s betrayal—not even in the same universe. But it’s a yellow flag, at least. A caution sign on this road I’m suddenly traveling faster than I anticipated.

I roll onto my back again, watching shadows play across my ceiling from the streetlight outside. A question forms in my mind, one I’ve been avoiding: what do I actually want?

Three weeks ago, the answer was simple: my quiet life, my work, my independence. Maybe a cat, eventually, when I’m ready for the commitment.

Now? Now I’m not so sure. Because mixed with all the doubts and fears and rational objections is something else: the way my heart raced when he looked at me tonight, the warmth of his hand against my skin, the feeling of being desired, seen, wanted.

It’s been a long time since I felt any of those things. And maybe that’s clouding my judgment. Maybe I’m so starved for connection that I’m ignoring red flags. Or maybe—just maybe—I’m so used to looking for danger that I’m seeing it where it doesn’t exist.

My eyelids grow heavy as exhaustion finally overtakes anxiety. The last thing I notice before drifting off is the faint sound of an early morning freight train in the distance, another Phoenix soundtrack I’ve grown oddly fond of.

As I slip toward sleep, one clear certainty emerges from the chaos of my thoughts:

Whatever game we’re playing, whatever story we’re writing, I’m not ready for it to end just yet. Even if it means letting a hockey player with a crooked smile and terrible bow tie skills back into my carefully ordered life.

* * *

Morning arrives with offensive cheerfulness, sunlight streaming through the blinds I forgot to close last night. I groan, rolling over to check the time: 8:47 AM. Not terrible for a post-gala Saturday, but less sleep than I’d hoped for given my late-night overthinking session.

My phone has two new notifications.

CALL ME IMMEDIATELY. I need all the details about last night. And don’t pretend you’re still sleeping, I know you’ve been up since 7 doing your weird morning yoga thing.

Good morning. I’m heading to practice, but I left something at your front door. No pressure to talk today if you need more time. Whenever you’re ready.

I sit up, curiosity overriding my desire to burrow back under the covers and ignore the world. What could he have left? Apology flowers? A heartfelt note? The deed to his townhouse in penance?

Pulling on a robe, I pad to the front door and carefully open it, peering out like I’m expecting an ambush. Instead, I find a small paper bag from Lux, the downtown bakery I mentioned loving during our coffee shop debate, and a cup of coffee in a to-go mug—still warm, based on the condensation on the lid.

Attached to the bag is a sticky note with his messy handwriting:

Real coffee this time. And a chocolate croissant because you mentioned once that they’re your weakness. No strings, no expectations. Just breakfast.

I bring the items inside, setting them on my kitchen counter and staring at them like they might contain hidden explosives. It’s a sweet gesture. Thoughtful. The kind of thing that makes it very hard to maintain emotional distance.

The croissant, when I peek in the bag, looks sinfully perfect—flaky and buttery and exactly what I want after the emotional rollercoaster of last night. The coffee, when I take a cautious sip, is prepared exactly how I like it: splash of cream, no sugar.

He’s paying attention. Remembering details. Being considerate.

It’s annoying how effective his strategy is.

My phone buzzes again, and I know without looking that it’s Sarah, who has the patience of a caffeinated toddler when she wants information.

I KNOW YOU’RE AWAKE. If you don’t call me in the next 3 minutes, I’m coming over. And I’m bringing Tommy’s mom, who has been DYING to meet you and will absolutely ask about your reproductive plans.

I nearly choke on my coffee. Sarah fights dirty.

With a sigh, I call her, knowing there’s no escape.

“FINALLY!” she answers on the first ring. “I’ve been dying here. Tell me EVERYTHING. Did you sleep with him? Was it amazing? Did he do that thing hockey players are supposedly good at because of their strong?—”

“Sarah!” I interrupt, scandalized. “It’s not even 9!”

“It’s never too early for sex details,” she replies cheerfully. “Especially when they involve Brody ‘Arms For Days’ Carter.”

“There are no sex details,” I say firmly, taking a bite of the croissant. Oh god, it’s even better than it looks.

“What? Why not? Elle! What happened?”

I sigh, settling onto a barstool and cradling my coffee. Through my kitchen window, I can see the hazy outline of Camelback Mountain in the distance, already shimmering in the morning heat.

“We kissed.”

“And?”

“And... it was nice.” Even to my own ears, this sounds like a massive understatement. “Very nice.”

“’Very nice’?” Sarah repeats incredulously. “You sound like you’re describing a hotel continental breakfast, not making out with the hottest defenseman in the NHL.”

“I’m being circumspect.”

“You’re being ridiculous. Was there tongue? Please tell me there was tongue.”

“Sarah!”

“What! I’m invested in your happiness. And your sex life. Which have been depressingly correlated for the past three years.”

I roll my eyes, though she can’t see me. “Yes, there was tongue. And hands. And... we ended up on the couch.”

Her squeal is so high-pitched I consider hanging up on her. “I KNEW IT! Tommy owes me twenty bucks!”

“You bet on us again?” I’m not actually surprised, just exasperated.

“Of course we did. Tommy said you’d make him wait at least a week after the gala. I said you’d cave last night because of that thing he does with his eyes when he looks at you.”

“What thing?” I ask before I can stop myself.

“That intense, focused thing. Like you’re the only person in the room and he’s memorizing every detail of your face. It’s very effective. Tommy used it on me when we were dating.”

The accuracy of her description is unsettling. “It’s just a look, Sarah.”

“Honey, no look makes a woman invite a man in at midnight unless it’s a very special look.” Her tone shifts, becoming more serious. “So if there was kissing and couches involved, why do you sound like someone canceled Christmas? Did he do something wrong?”

I hesitate, unsure how to explain. “Not wrong, exactly. Just... he knew I lived here before he moved in. Tommy told him. It feels like he orchestrated our meeting.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “And that’s… bad?”

“It’s not good!” I protest. “He kept information from me. Made decisions based on knowledge I didn’t have.”

“Let me get this straight,” Sarah says slowly. “You’re upset because an attractive, successful man was so interested in you that when he found out where you lived, he chose to move nearby in hopes of seeing you again?”

When she puts it that way, it does sound a bit ridiculous. “It’s the principle, Sarah. He should have told me.”

“When? ‘Hi, I’m your new neighbor. By the way, I moved here partly because I’ve been thinking about you for three years after a conversation at a Christmas party’? That wouldn’t have sent you running for the hills at all.”

She has a point, which is irritating. “He still should have mentioned it later. Before the gala. Before he kissed me.”

“Fair,” she concedes. “But Elle, honey, is this really about him not telling you? Or is it about you being scared of how quickly this is moving?”

I take another bite of croissant to avoid answering immediately. Sarah knows me too well.

“Both,” I admit finally. “It’s been three years since I’ve felt anything like this. It’s… overwhelming.”

“Oh, sweetie.” Her voice softens. “Of course it is. But that doesn’t mean it’s wrong. Just new.”

“I don’t know if I’m ready,” I confess. “He’s so young, Sarah. And enthusiastic. And... uncomplicated.”

“First of all, twenty-seven isn’t that young. Second, enthusiasm is good! And third, everyone seems uncomplicated until you get to know them better. Trust me, Brody Carter has his own baggage—Tommy’s told me some of it. He’s just better at not leading with it.”

I consider this. She’s right, of course. Everyone has layers, histories. I shouldn’t assume Brody’s life has been one easy ride just because he approaches things with optimism instead of my practiced cynicism.

“So what do I do?” I ask, hating how lost I sound.

“Talk to him,” she says simply. “Be honest about your concerns. Listen to his side. Then decide if it’s something you want to pursue. But Elle?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t sabotage something potentially wonderful because you’re scared. You deserve to be happy. Even if it’s with a hot hockey player who’s freakishly into you.”

“I’ll talk to him,” I promise. “Later today, probably. He has practice this morning.”

“Good. And then you’ll call me with a full report, including exactly how good of a kisser he is on a scale from ‘adequate’ to ‘toe-curling.’”

“Goodbye, Sarah,” I say firmly, hanging up to the sound of her laughter.

I finish my coffee and croissant in contemplative silence, turning over our conversation in my mind. Sarah sees things in black and white sometimes, while I live in the gray areas. But she’s right about one thing: I need to talk to Brody directly, not just spiral in my own anxious thoughts.

My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number. For a moment, my heart stops—is it Jason somehow? But the message quickly dispels that fear.

Hi Elliot, this is Jensen from the team. Carter asked me to let you know he forgot his phone at home like the disaster he is. He’ll call you when he retrieves it. Also, he’s moping like someone ate the last cupcake, so maybe go easy on him? Just a suggestion from your friendly neighborhood goalie.

I save the number, bemused by this unexpected communication.

Thanks for letting me know, Jensen. And noted about the moping.

No problem. He’s a good guy. Terrible at faceoffs, but good where it counts.

I’m not entirely sure how to respond to that, so I settle for something simple.

I’ll keep that in mind.

With a sigh, I set the phone down and head to the shower.

I have hours before Brody will be done with practice—plenty of time to figure out exactly what I want to say to him.

And, more importantly, what I want from him.