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brODY

“C arter! What the hell was that?” Coach’s voice cuts through the rink like a bullwhip, making every player on the ice wince in sympathy.

I’ve just missed a defensive assignment so badly that our third-line center had a clean breakaway during the scrimmage. Not exactly my finest moment.

“Sorry, Coach,” I call back, tapping my stick against my shin pads in frustration. “Won’t happen again.”

“Damn right it won’t,” he growls. “Because if I see another space cadet moment like that, you’ll be running stairs until your legs fall off. Focus up!”

I nod, pushing to be present, to keep my mind on the ice and away from Elliot’s living room. Away from the memory of her lips against mine, the soft curve of her waist under my hands, the way her eyes went from warm to cold when I admitted I’d moved to her complex intentionally.

“You alright, man?” Tommy skates up beside me as Coach resets the drill. “You look like someone ran over your dog.”

“I don’t have a dog,” I mutter.

“It’s an expression. But seriously, you good?”

I shake my head slightly. “I screwed up with Elliot last night.”

Tommy’s eyebrows shoot up. “Already? It’s been what, twelve hours since the gala?”

“It’s a gift,” I say grimly. “My efficiency at screwing things up is unmatched.”

“What happened?”

“I—”

“If you ladies are done with your tea party,” Coach bellows from center ice, “we’ve got actual hockey to practice!”

Tommy gives me a sympathetic grimace. “Later,” he mouths, skating back to position.

I settle into the defensive stance I’ve practiced a million times, forcing my mind to narrow to the simple task at hand: protect the net, read the play, anticipate the attack. But even as my body goes through the familiar motions, my thoughts keep drifting back to last night.

And not just last night. The memory of her at that Christmas party three years ago rises unbidden. How she’d been tucked away in a corner with her book while the party raged around her. How she’d looked up when I approached, those dark eyes assessing me coolly before softening when I asked about what she was reading.

“Carter, on your left!” Jensen yells from his position in net.

I snap back to awareness just in time to see Wilson bearing down on my side. I pivot, angling him toward the boards, then poke check the puck cleanly away. It’s a textbook defensive play, the kind I could do in my sleep. And apparently while having an emotional crisis.

“Better,” Coach grudgingly acknowledges. “Now do it without the five-second delay where you contemplate the meaning of life first.”

The guys chuckle, and I force a smile. Focus. I need to focus. For the next two hours, at least, Elliot and her perfect lips and her understandable anger need to stay off the ice.

I manage to keep it together for the rest of practice—not brilliantly, but competently. No more major mistakes, no more spacing out in the middle of plays. Just solid, professional hockey that won’t get me benched but definitely won’t make highlight reels either.

In the locker room afterward, I sit heavily on the bench in front of my stall, unlacing my skates. Around me, the usual post-practice chatter fills the air—guys discussing plays, making plans for the afternoon, complaining about aches and pains. The familiar soundtrack of my professional life for the past decade.

“Alright, talk.” Tommy drops onto the bench beside me. “What happened with Elliot?”

I sigh, pulling off my left skate. “She invited me in after the gala. For ‘not-coffee.’”

“Sounds promising,” Tommy says, not understanding.

“It was. It was very promising. Until I mentioned that I knew where she lived before I moved in.”

Tommy winces. “Ah. That.”

“Yeah, that.” I yank off my right skate with more force than necessary. “She didn’t take it well.”

“Did you explain?”

“I tried. But how do I explain that I’ve thought about her for three years without sounding like an obsessed stalker?” I run a hand through my sweaty hair. “Which, by the way, is exactly how she took it.”

“You’re not a stalker,” Tommy says firmly. “Slightly pathetic, maybe, but not a stalker.”

“Thanks for the character reference.”

“Anytime.” He claps me on the shoulder. “Look, Elliot’s had a rough time. The divorce with Jason was brutal, and not just because of the cheating. He messed with her head, made her doubt herself. Sarah says she’s been slowly putting herself back together for three years.”

“And I just knocked down all her careful rebuilding with one badly timed confession.”

“Maybe. Or maybe you need to give her a minute to process, to realize you’re not Jason.”

I nod, hoping he’s right. “I left her coffee and a croissant this morning. As a peace offering.”

“Solid start,” Tommy approves. “Though not quite at the ‘grand gesture’ level if you really screwed up.”

“I’m working my way up to that.” I stand, stripping off my practice jersey. “I think I left my phone at home. Can I borrow yours to text her?”

Tommy shakes his head. “Left mine at home. Sarah has this ‘no phones during breakfast’ rule now.”

“Jensen,” I call across the locker room. Can you text Elliot for me? I forgot my phone at home and she might reach out.”

Jensen nods without looking up from untaping his pads. “Yeah, give me her number.”

I watch him type out the message to her and toss his phone to the side.

“Thanks, man,” I tell him. “Owe you one.”

“You owe me about twelve after that defensive breakdown earlier,” he grumbles. “My save percentage in practice shouldn’t have to compensate for your love life.”

“It won’t happen again.” And I mean it. I can’t bring personal issues onto the ice, not with playoffs approaching. Not with Miami—and Jason—coming to town next week.

The thought of Jason sends an unpleasant jolt through me. He’ll be here, in our arena, possibly on the ice against me. The man who hurt Elliot, who cheated on her and humiliated her publicly, will be right there, wearing his smug expression and Miami colors.

“Speaking of distractions,” Coach announces, walking into the locker room with his clipboard. “We’ve got Miami coming in on Thursday. I don’t want any extracurriculars, understand? They’re fighting for playoff position just like we are. This is about hockey, not personal vendettas.”

His eyes linger on me for a beat too long, making it clear he’s heard something. Probably from Matthews or Kelly, who are still firmly Team Jason despite his departure from Phoenix.

“All hockey, Coach,” I assure him, trying to sound more convinced than I feel.

“Better be.” He turns to address the full room. “They’ve won three straight. Martinez is on a hot streak—five goals in those three games. We need to shut him down, clog the neutral zone, and stay out of the penalty box. Full game plan tomorrow, but start getting your heads right today.”

Jason Martinez. On a hot streak. Coming to Phoenix in seven days.

Perfect.

After showering and changing, I check my car and confirm that my phone is indeed missing. The drive back to my complex feels interminable as I itch to check my messages, to see if Elliot has responded to my breakfast offering.

When I finally locate my phone on my kitchen counter where I must have left it this morning there’s nothing from Elliot. Just a text from Jensen saying he passed along my message, and one from my sister sending pictures of my nephew’s hockey practice.

I stand in my living room, staring at Elliot’s townhouse across our shared walkway. Her car is there, which means she’s home. I could walk over, knock on her door, try to explain in person. But she asked for time to process, and pushing my way in again would just reinforce the wrong impression.

Instead, I drop my gear bag by the door, and collapse onto my couch. The place still has that half-moved-in feel. A few unpacked boxes in corners, blank walls waiting for artwork, furniture arranged in a purely functional way. I haven’t had the time or motivation to really make it feel like home.

My phone buzzes, and I snatch it up, hoping to see Elliot’s name. But it’s just Tommy.

Sarah says Elliot’s calming down. She talked to her this morning. Don’t panic.

Define ‘calming down.’ Still furious but no longer homicidal? Mildly irritated? Actually understanding my side?

Somewhere between ‘needs time’ and ‘kind of sees your point.’ Sarah refused to give me details, but she seemed less worried about you ending up murdered in your sleep.

Comforting.

Speaking of comfort, Coach wants us reviewing Miami game tape this afternoon. 5pm at the facility.

I groan aloud. Extra film study is the last thing I want right now, but I also know it’s necessary. Miami’s offensive scheme is tricky, built around creating space for their snipers—especially Jason.

I’ll be there.

Try to look less lovesick by then. The guys are starting to worry your brain’s been permanently damaged.

Tell them to worry about themselves. My brain’s fine.

Your brain hasn’t been fine since you saw Elliot in that red dress last night.

He’s not wrong. I set the phone down and stare at my ceiling, replaying every moment of last night for the hundredth time. The way she looked when she opened her door. The feel of her hand on my arm. Our dance. Her surprising invitation for ‘not-coffee.’

And then the kiss. God, that kiss. Like something out of a movie, perfect and passionate and everything I’d imagined for three years.

Until I ruined it with my badly timed confession.

Three years of thinking about her. Three years of wondering what might have been. It still feels surreal to admit how much that one conversation had affected me.

My teammates in Boston had never understood. They’d nicknamed me “The Monk” after I’d turned down date after date, hook-up after hook-up. “Waiting for my hall pass with Scarlett Johansson,” I’d joke, deflecting the real reason. How could I explain that I was hung up on a woman I’d spoken to a handful of times? A married woman, at that.

We’d chatted briefly a handful of times before the Christmas party. Greetings exchanged at team functions and celebrations.

The first real conversation—the one about books—that’s when everything changed. When Jason had interrupted, drunk and demanding her attention, I’d seen her transform instantly from the animated, insightful woman who’d been passionately discussing Dumas to a quiet, accommodating NHL wife. It had bothered me more than it should have.

I’d been traded to Boston right after playoffs.

Even hearing about their divorce from a distance, I felt guilty for the small spark of hope it had ignited. Then I’d pushed it down, focused on hockey, on building my career. I told myself relationships were complications I couldn’t afford. But truthfully it was that no woman I met since Elliot could compare. To her intelligence, her dark, knowing eyes, the fact that she literally didn’t care that I played hockey.

And then Tommy mentioned she lived here. That she was his wife’s best friend. That she was still single.

I pull myself upright. Wallowing isn’t helping. What I need is a plan. A way to show Elliot that I’m genuine, that my interest in her isn’t some game or conquest. That she can trust me.

First step: give her the space she asked for. No more surprise deliveries, no more texts unless she initiates. Ball in her court.

Second step: figure out how to handle the inevitable confrontation with Jason next week. Because if Elliot decides to give me a chance, the last thing we need is me getting into a brawl with her ex-husband on the ice. She’s had enough hockey drama in her life.

I head to the kitchen, rummaging through my nearly empty refrigerator for something resembling lunch. The pickings are slim and I pull up a delivery app to order something, wondering briefly if I should also order something for Elliot, just in case.

Elliot again, my brain literally doesn’t stop returning to her, wondering what she’s doing right now. Is she still angry? Is she second-guessing the kisses we shared? Is she regretting inviting me in at all?

The uncertainty is killing me. But I meant what I texted her last night, I’m not going anywhere. If she needs time, I’ll give her time. If she needs space, I’ll give her space. If she needs me to grovel on my knees begging forgiveness, I’ll buy knee pads and get to work.

I need to focus on what I can control. Right now, that’s hockey. Preparation for Miami. For facing Jason on the ice without letting personal feelings interfere.

With a sigh, I grab my tablet and settle back on the couch with my lunch delivery, pulling up the most recent Miami games. Might as well get a head start on the film study. As I watch Jason skating—still with that characteristic slight hunch when he’s waiting for a pass, still tapping his stick three times before a faceoff—I try to see him objectively, as an opponent to be neutralized rather than the man who hurt Elliot.

It’s not easy.

Every time he scores (and he scores often, I have to admit), I feel a twist of resentment. Every celebration, every smug grin at the camera, every fist bump with teammates makes me want to reach through the screen and knock that perfect smile off his perfect face.

“Professional,” I remind myself out loud. “Be professional.”

My doorbell rings, startling me so badly I nearly drop the tablet. I pause the video and move to the door, my heart hammering with the possibility that it might be Elliot.

Instead, I find Jensen standing on my doorstep, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“Hey, man,” I say, trying to hide my disappointment. “What’s up?”

“Coach sent me,” he says grimly. “Extra sessions in net for you. He says if you’re going to space out during games, you need double the reps in practice.”

I groan. “Now?”

“Now.” Jensen looks apologetic but firm. “He was pretty insistent. Something about making sure you’re ‘fully focused’ for Miami.”

Translation: Coach doesn’t trust me to keep my cool against Jason, so he’s going to run me into the ground to make sure I’m too tired to start anything.

“Let me grab my keys.” I step back, waving him in. “Did he send anyone else, or am I getting special treatment?”

“Kelly is meeting us there. Guess Coach figures if one of Jason’s old buddies is on the ice, you’ll have to behave.”

“Fantastic,” I mutter. Kelly is exactly who I want to spend my Saturday afternoon with—a guy who still texts regularly with Jason and makes no secret of his loyalty.

“Look on the bright side,” Jensen offers as we head to his car. “Extra ice time means less time to obsess over what’s-her-name.”

“Elliot,” I correct automatically.

“Right. The hot neighbor who has you skating into boards and missing defensive assignments.”

I shoot him a look. “She’s not just ‘the hot neighbor.’”

Jensen raises his hands in mock surrender. “Sorry, sorry. The intellectually stimulating, emotionally complex hot neighbor who has you skating into boards and missing defensive assignments. Better?”

Despite everything, I laugh. “Much. And for the record, she’s also funny. And kind. And passionate about books. And completely unimpressed by hockey.”

“Sounds terrible,” Jensen jokes. “I can see why you’re so miserable.”

“I messed up,” I admit, buckling my seatbelt as Jensen starts the car. “Kept something from her that I should have been upfront about.”

“The fact that you moved next door to her on purpose?” At my startled look, he shrugs. “Tommy talks. A lot.”

“Great. So the whole team knows I’m a pathetic stalker.”

“Not the whole team. Kelly wouldn’t care enough to listen. And nobody thinks you’re a stalker.” He pulls out of the complex parking lot. “Though the moving-next-door thing is a little intense, I’ll give you that.”

“It wasn’t like that,” I protest. “The complex is in a good location, the price was right, and yes, knowing she lived there was a factor. But I wasn’t planning to show up on her doorstep in the middle of the night with a boombox or anything.”

“Good call. Those things are heavy.”

I slump in my seat. “I should have told her from the beginning. I just... couldn’t figure out how without sounding creepy.”

“Probably because it is a little creepy,” Jensen points out, not unkindly. “But the question is, does she like you enough to get past it?”

“I have no idea.” I stare out the window at the passing landscape. “I hope so.”

The thing I haven’t told anyone—not Jensen, not even Tommy—is how much those brief conversations with Elliot had meant to me. How, in thirty minutes of talking about books, she’d seen me more clearly than women I’d dated for months. How she’d asked me what I wanted to do after hockey, the first person who’d ever acknowledged there might be more to me than the sport.

I’d told her I wasn’t sure, but I liked the idea of coaching kids someday.

“That makes sense,” she’d said thoughtfully. “You explain things well. You have patience.”

It was such a simple observation, but it had stayed with me. Through trade negotiations, through playoff runs, through the grind of seasons away from Phoenix. The idea that someone had seen something in me beyond my slap shot and defensive positioning.

“Well, in the meantime,” Jensen says as we pull into the practice facility parking lot, “you can channel all that angst into stopping pucks. I expect your best effort, lover boy.”

“You’ll get it,” I promise. And I mean it. Maybe a few hours of physical exertion, of focusing solely on the mechanics of hockey, is exactly what I need to clear my head.

As we gear up in the practically empty locker room, Kelly arrives, his perpetual scowl firmly in place.

“Carter,” he acknowledges curtly, heading to his stall.

“Kelly.” I keep my tone neutral. No point in antagonizing him, especially when we’re about to be on the ice together for the next couple of hours.

“Looked like you had an interesting gala,” he comments, not looking at me as he begins lacing his skates.

I tense. “It was fine.”

“Seems like more than fine. You and Martinez’s ex looked pretty cozy.”

There it is. The jab I’ve been waiting for.

“Her name is Elliot,” I say evenly. “And I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

He shrugs, still not looking up. “Just making conversation. Jay mentioned you two seemed friendly a few years ago. He was surprised, that’s all.”

The casual reference to Jason makes my blood pressure spike. Of course Matthews or Kelly has already reported back to Miami. Probably texted him before the gala even ended.

“I’m sure he was,” I manage, focusing on taping my stick to avoid saying something I’ll regret.

“She always did have a thing for hockey players.” Kelly’s tone is deliberately casual, but the implication is clear: Elliot has a type, and I’m just the next in line.

I set my stick down harder than necessary. “We’re here to practice, man. Not gossip like teenagers.”

“Just thought you should know what you’re getting into. Jay’s got a lot to say about his ex-wife.”

“I bet he does.” I stand, towering over him. “And I’m not interested in a single word of it.”

Kelly finally looks up, a slight smirk playing at his lips. “Just trying to help out a teammate.”

“You want to help?” I step closer, keeping my voice low. “Keep Elliot’s name out of your mouth around me. And definitely don’t bring up Jason’s. We clear?”

Something in my expression must convey my seriousness, because Kelly’s smirk falters slightly. “Crystal,” he mutters, shouldering past me toward the ice.

I take a deep breath, trying to center myself before following. This is exactly what I was worried about—the inevitable intersection of my personal life with the complex politics of hockey. Whether I like it or not, there are guys on my team who are loyal to Jason, who will report back to him, who will view my relationship with Elliot (whatever it is or might be) through that lens.

And in a week, Jason himself will be here. In my arena. Possibly lined up against me on the ice.

“You good?” Jensen asks as I exit the locker room.

“Yeah.” I focus on the simple act of stepping onto the ice, the familiar scrape of blades, the chill rising from the surface. “Let’s play some hockey.”

For the next two hours, I force everything else from my mind—Elliot, Jason, Kelly’s insinuations—and focus solely on the drills Coach runs us through. Stop the puck. Defend the zone. Make the outlet pass. Simple, physical tasks that require my complete attention.

It helps. By the time we finish, sweat-soaked and breathing hard, my mind feels clearer. Not resolved, but calmer. More centered.

“Better,” Coach acknowledges gruffly as we leave the ice. “That’s the focus I need from you against Miami. Whatever else is going on, leave it off my ice. Got it?”

“Yeah, Coach.” I meet his eyes directly. “You’ll get my best.”

As I shower and change, Kelly keeps his distance, apparently having decided that poking the bear isn’t worth the potential mauling. Smart move on his part. With the clarity provided by two hours of intense physical activity, I recognize how close I came to starting something in the locker room—something that would have reflected poorly on me and possibly gotten back to Elliot.

I need to be smarter than that. More controlled. Jason might be an asshole, but he’s a calculating one. He won’t throw the first punch or make an obvious move. He’ll provoke, insinuate, try to get under my skin. I need to be prepared for that.

More importantly, I need to be prepared for how Elliot might feel seeing me play against her ex-husband. Will she even come to the game? Would she want to, or would it be too uncomfortable? Should I invite her, or would that seem presumptuous given our current uncertain status?

Jensen drops me back at the complex late in the afternoon. As I walk toward my front door, exhaustion settling into my bones from the double practice sessions, I glance over at Elliot’s townhouse. Her car is still there, but the place looks quiet. No movement visible through the windows.

I force myself to keep walking, to enter my own home without lingering like some lovesick teenager staring at her house. Ball in her court, I remind myself. Give her space.

Inside, I dump my stuff by the laundry room and head straight for the kitchen, suddenly ravenous after the extra skating. I’m assembling ingredients for an omelet when my doorbell rings.

Again, my heart leaps with hope. Again, I try to temper my expectations as I move to answer it.

This time, when I open the door, it’s Elliot standing there.

She looks different from last night—casual in jeans and a simple blue top, hair pulled back in a ponytail, face free of makeup. But she’s just as beautiful, perhaps more so in this unguarded state.

“Hi,” she says, hands tucked into her back pockets. “Got a minute to talk?”

“For you?” I step back to invite her in. “I’ve got all the time in the world.”