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15

ELLIOT

S tanding on Brody’s doorstep feels like déjà vu in reverse—now I’m the one seeking entrance, feeling awkward and uncertain. When he opens the door, looking exhausted but somehow still unfairly attractive in sweatpants and a faded team t-shirt, my carefully rehearsed speech momentarily evaporates.

There’s something raw in his expression—vulnerability mixed with hope—that makes my chest tighten. I spent the afternoon practicing what I’d say, how I’d maintain emotional distance while we worked through this. Now, faced with the reality of him, those plans seem inadequate.

His townhouse is a mirror image of mine in layout, but the similarities end there. Where my space is carefully decorated—each book, plant, and throw pillow deliberately chosen and placed—his has the sparse, functional feel of someone who just moved in and hasn’t fully committed to staying. A few unpacked boxes sit in corners. The walls are mostly bare, save for a framed hockey jersey and what looks like a child’s drawing on the refrigerator.

“Sorry about the mess,” he says, following my gaze. “I haven’t really had time to settle in properly.”

“It’s fine.” I step further into the living room, noticing the tablet on the coffee table displaying what looks like a paused hockey game. “Was I interrupting something?”

“Just some film study for the Miami game next week.” He gestures toward the kitchen. “I was about to make an omelet. Have you eaten?”

I consider saying yes—maintaining some distance seems wise—but my stomach chooses that moment to growl audibly.

“I’ll take that as a no,” he says with a small smile. “Cheese and vegetable okay? It’s about all I have in the fridge right now.”

“You don’t have to cook for me.” But even as I protest, I follow him into the kitchen.

“I know. But I’m cooking anyway, and making two omelets is just as easy as making one.” He opens the refrigerator, pulling out eggs, bell peppers, and cheese. “Besides, food makes difficult conversations easier. Something about having your hands occupied while you talk.”

There’s wisdom in that, I have to admit. “Alright. Thank you.”

An awkward silence falls as he efficiently chops vegetables and cracks eggs into a bowl. I lean against the counter, watching his movements—confident and practiced, even in this non-hockey environment.

“So,” he says after a moment, eyes on the cutting board. “You wanted to talk.”

“Yes.” I take a deep breath. “First, thank you for the coffee and croissant this morning. That was... thoughtful.”

“You’re welcome.” He glances up briefly. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want to see me today, but I figured everyone deserves decent coffee, regardless of relationship status.”

“About that.” I fiddle with a dishtowel left on the counter. “I’m sorry I reacted so strongly last night. I think I was overwhelmed by everything—the gala, being back in the hockey world, the kissing—and finding out you’d moved here intentionally hit a nerve.”

His hands pause their chopping. “I’m the one who should be apologizing, Elliot. I should have told you from the beginning. It was wrong to keep it from you.”

“Why did you?” The question comes out softer than I intended. Less accusatory, more genuinely curious.

He sighs, resuming his vegetable prep. “Honestly? I was afraid. When Tommy mentioned you lived here, that the unit next to yours was available, it felt like fate or something. But I knew if I showed up saying, ‘Hi, I’m your new neighbor, and by the way, I specifically moved here because of you,’ you’d run the other direction.”

“You’re not wrong,” I admit.

“So I thought I’d move in, see if we hit it off naturally, and then tell you once we knew each other better. But the longer I waited, the harder it became to bring up.” He pours beaten eggs into a heated pan, the sizzle filling the silence. “For what it’s worth, I never planned the locked-out incident. That was genuinely me being an idiot.”

“A conveniently shirtless idiot,” I note, unable to keep the dry humor from my voice.

He has the grace to look sheepish. “The shirtless part was genuine too. I usually run without a shirt when it’s warm enough. But I won’t pretend I was upset that you answered the door.”

I watch as he expertly flips the omelet, adding cheese and vegetables to one half before folding it over. “You’re good at that.”

“Thanks. Like I said, I considered culinary school if hockey didn’t work out.” He slides the finished omelet onto a plate and hands it to me. “Forks in the drawer to your left.”

I retrieve two forks while he starts on the second omelet. “You still haven’t really answered my question from last night. Why me? We barely knew each other.”

He’s quiet for a moment, focusing on the eggs. When he finally speaks, his voice has a thoughtfulness I’m beginning to recognize—a contrast to his usual energetic demeanor.

“That Christmas party, when we talked about books... it was the first real conversation I’d had at a team function. Everyone else wanted to talk about stats or trades or who was sleeping with whom. But you treated me like a person, not just a hockey player.” He flips his omelet effortlessly. “And then Jason came over, drunk and condescending, and I watched how he treated you. How you kind of... diminished yourself around him. It stuck with me.”

I take a bite of omelet to avoid responding immediately. It’s delicious, perfectly cooked and seasoned.

“When the divorce news broke,” he continues, “I was in Boston by then. But I thought about you, wondered if you were okay. Thought about reaching out, but what would I say? ‘Hey, remember me? We talked about books once, and now I’m calling because your husband’s a jerk’?”

“That would have been awkward,” I agree.

“Exactly. So I didn’t. But I still thought about you sometimes.” He plates his own omelet and joins me at the counter. “When Tommy mentioned you lived here, that you were doing well, it felt like a second chance. A do-over.”

I study him, looking for any sign of insincerity, any hint of the manipulation I became so familiar with during my marriage. But all I see is openness—vulnerable and a little nervous, but honest.

“That’s either incredibly sweet or moderately concerning,” I say finally. “I haven’t decided which.”

He laughs, some tension leaving his shoulders. “Fair enough. If you’d seemed unhappy with my presence or uninterested in getting to know me, I would have backed off immediately. I promise I’m not actually a stalker.”

“Just a man with an excellent memory and questionable decision-making skills.”

“That should be on my hockey card,” he agrees, grinning. “‘Brody Carter: Defenseman, culinary enthusiast, questionable decision-maker.’”

I can’t help but smile back. That’s the thing about Brody—he disarms me, makes me laugh when I’m determined to stay serious. It’s annoying and endearing all at once.

“This is really good,” I say, gesturing to the omelet. “The chef career would have worked out.”

“There’s still time. Hockey players don’t exactly have long shelf lives.”

The casual reference to his age—or rather, to the limited span of his career—makes me think of my own concerns about our age difference. He’s not even thirty. I’m closer to forty. By the time he retires from hockey, I’ll be well into my forties, while he’ll still be a young man with his life ahead of him.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, eyes intent on my face. “You got quiet all of a sudden.”

“Age,” I admit, deciding honesty is the best approach. “Yours. Mine. The gap between them.”

“Ah.” He takes a bite of his omelet, chewing thoughtfully. “Nine years, right?”

“Nine years is a lot. Especially at our ages.”

“Is it?” He sets down his fork. “My parents had a twelve-year gap. They were married for twenty-five years.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“For one thing, men typically date younger women. It’s socially accepted. The reverse is still considered... unconventional.”

“Since when do you care about conventional?” he challenges.

“I don’t,” I say automatically, then reconsider. “Or at least, I didn’t use to. But the divorce made me more aware of... perceptions. Of being judged.”

His expression softens. “Elliot, I don’t care what anyone thinks about us. And for the record, I don’t see you as older. I just see you as... you.”

It’s a sweet sentiment, but reality isn’t that simple. “You might not care now, but what about in five years? Ten? When I’m approaching fifty and you’re still in your prime?”

“First of all, bold of you to assume my prime isn’t already behind me,” he jokes. “I pulled a muscle getting out of bed last week.”

“I’m serious, Brody.”

“I know.” He reaches across the counter, not quite touching my hand but close. “And I’m telling you, it doesn’t matter to me. I’m interested in who you are, not what year you were born.”

I want to believe him. Part of me does. But another part—the part that spent three years rebuilding after Jason—is still wary of anything that seems too good to be true.

“And what about the hockey thing?” I ask, moving to safer ground. “I’ve done the hockey wife routine. It wasn’t for me.”

“I’m not asking you to be a hockey wife,” he says. “I’m just asking you to give this—whatever this is between us—a chance. On your terms.”

“My terms?”

“Yes.” He meets my eyes directly. “You set the pace. You decide what you’re comfortable with, how much or little of the hockey world you want to be part of. I won’t push.”

It’s exactly what I need to hear, which makes me automatically suspicious. “That’s very... accommodating.”

“I can be a jerk if it would make you more comfortable,” he offers with a straight face. “Demand you attend every game, bake cookies for the team. Really lean into those toxic masculine stereotypes.”

Despite myself, I laugh. “Please don’t.”

“Too late, I’m committed now.” He deepens his voice comically. “Woman, fetch me a beer and don’t talk during the game.”

“Stop it,” I say, still laughing. “You’re terrible at that.”

“I know.” His smile is warm, genuine. “It’s not really my style.”

We finish our omelets in a more comfortable silence. I find myself studying him when he’s not looking—the strong line of his jaw, the way his brow furrows slightly in concentration as he eats, the careful way he handles his fork and knife. Small details that shouldn’t matter but somehow do.

“So,” he says finally, setting down his empty plate. “Where does this leave us?”

It’s the question I’ve been dreading and anticipating in equal measure. What do I want? The safe answer would be friendship—clear boundaries, limited vulnerability. But friendship doesn’t explain the flutter in my stomach when he smiles, or how vividly I remember the feel of his lips against mine.

“I’m not sure,” I admit. “I like you, Brody. More than I expected to. But I’m still...”

“Scared?” he supplies when I trail off.

“Cautious,” I correct, though he’s not wrong. “I rushed into things with Jason, ignored red flags because he was charming and attentive. I don’t want to make the same mistakes.”

“That makes sense.” He nods, encouragingly. “So what would help you feel more comfortable? More time? Space? A background check? Character references from my kindergarten teacher?”

His ability to inject humor into serious conversations is a gift—it diffuses tension without dismissing the underlying concerns.

“Time, definitely,” I say. “And maybe we could take a step back, do this more... traditionally?”

“You mean like actual dates? In public places? With scheduled end times and no ‘not-coffee’ invitations?” There’s no mockery in his tone, just clarification.

“Yes. Exactly.” Relief floods through me that he understands. “I’d like to get to know you better, outside of... physical attraction.”

He smirks slightly. “So you admit there’s physical attraction?”

“I invited you in for ‘not-coffee,’ Carter. I think we’ve established mutual attraction.”

“Just checking.” He raises his hands in mock surrender. “And for the record, I’m completely on board with traditional dating. Dinner, movies, museum visits—the whole nine yards. I’ll even bring you home by curfew and shake your father’s hand.”

“My father lives in Tucson, but I appreciate the sentiment.”

His expression turns more serious. “There is one thing we should probably discuss, though.”

“What’s that?”

“Miami’s coming to town on Thursday. Jason will be here.” He watches my reaction carefully. “I’m guessing Kelly or Wilson has already texted him about seeing us together at the gala.”

The mention of Jason courses unpleasantly through me. I’d been so focused on Brody that I’d temporarily forgotten about my ex-husband’s impending visit.

“Probably,” I admit. “The hockey world’s gossip network is terrifyingly efficient.”

“It is.” Brody’s expression is unreadable now. “I just want you to know that I’ll be professional on the ice. Whatever personal feelings I might have about him, I won’t start anything.”

The implication being that Jason might. “Is that likely to be an issue?”

Brody hesitates, clearly weighing his words. “Jason has a reputation for targeting guys he has personal issues with. Nothing blatant enough to get penalized, just... extra physical. Especially if he thinks it might get under someone’s skin.”

“And me being involved with you would give him plenty of motivation,” I conclude, understanding dawning.

“Maybe.” Brody shrugs, trying to look unconcerned. “Or maybe he’s moved on completely and won’t care. I just wanted you to be prepared, in case there’s any... tension during the game.”

I appreciate his honesty, even as anxiety begins to coil in my stomach. This is exactly what I was afraid of—being pulled back into hockey politics and drama, having my personal life become fodder for locker room gossip and on-ice rivalries.

“I understand if this complicates things for you,” Brody says quietly, noticing my expression. “If you want to take more time, or even step back completely until after the Miami game?—”

“No,” I interrupt, surprising myself with my vehemence. “I’m not letting Jason dictate my life anymore. That’s what he’d want—to know he still has that power over me.”

Brody’s expression brightens. “So we’re still on for traditional dating?”

“Yes.” I steel my resolve. “But I’d like to add one condition.”

“Name it.”

“I want to come to the Miami game.”

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “You sure? I thought you’d want to avoid any potential drama.”

“I’m sure.” I straighten my shoulders, feeling more certain by the second. “If Jason’s going to make this a thing, I’d rather face it head-on than hide. Besides,” I add with a small smile, “someone has to make sure you maintain that professionalism you promised.”

Brody grins, delight replacing his surprise. “I’ll get you the best seat in the house. Though fair warning—Sarah will probably insist on sitting with you, and she takes game day very seriously. Expect themed outfits and excessive cheering.”

“I can handle Sarah.” I glance at the time, realizing I’ve been here longer than I intended. “I should get going. I have work to finish tonight.”

“Of course.” He stands, gathering our plates. “Thanks for coming over. And for giving me another chance.”

“Thanks for the omelet. And the honesty.”

He walks me to the door, maintaining a respectful distance that wasn’t there last night. It’s both a relief and a subtle disappointment.

“So,” he says, leaning against the doorframe. “Traditional first date. How does Wednesday sound? Night before the Miami game, so my schedule’s clear.”

“Wednesday works.” I hesitate in the doorway, feeling like something more should be said but unsure what. “Good luck with your film study.”

“Thanks.” His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. “I’ll need it. Martinez is on a hot streak—five goals in the last three games.”

The casual mention of Jason’s hockey prowess still feels strange, but less painful than it once did. “I’m sure you’ll figure out how to shut him down. You’re pretty good at what you do.”

“Was that a compliment, Waltman?” He presses a hand to his chest in mock shock. “Be careful, or I’ll start thinking you respect my professional abilities.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.” I step onto the walkway, turning back with a small smile. “Goodnight, Brody.”

“Goodnight, Elliot.”

As I walk the short distance to my own door, I can feel his eyes on me, watching until I’m safely inside. It’s a small gesture, but a thoughtful one. The kind of detail that’s easy to dismiss but adds up to something meaningful.

Inside my townhouse, I lean against the closed door, processing the conversation. It went better than I expected—honest without being confrontational, making progress without rushing headlong into something I might regret.

My phone buzzes with a text. Sarah, of course.

Well??? Did you talk to him? Are you still mad? Did you make up? DETAILS, WOMAN.

We talked. I’m not mad anymore. We’re going to try dating. Properly dating, not “not-coffee” dating.

Translation: no more makeout sessions on the couch. Booooring. But progress! What changed your mind?

He made me an omelet and we had an adult conversation about boundaries and expectations.

The omelet was that good, huh?

The conversation was that good. The omelet was a bonus.

So when’s the first official date? And please tell me you’re coming to the Miami game. Tommy says the guys are all talking about how Martinez is going to try to start something with Brody.

I frown at this confirmation of Brody’s concerns.

Wednesday night, and yes, I’m coming to the game. Is Jason really that petty?

Is water wet? Of course he’s that petty. This is the man who “accidentally” ran into his trainer’s girlfriend after she dumped him for cheating. He lives for drama.

Lovely. I’d almost forgotten what a joy he is.

The good news is, Brody can definitely take him in a fight if it comes to that. Tommy says he’s scary when he gets truly angry, which is apparently rare.

Not helping, Sarah. I don’t want anyone fighting anyone.

Boring but sensible. Fine. I’ll pick you up for the game. We’ll get dinner first, pre-game, make a whole night of it. Your first official hockey WAG re-debut!

I am NOT a WAG.

Yet. ;) Gotta run, Tommy’s trying to cook again and I smell burning. XOXO

I set the phone down with a mixture of amusement and trepidation. Leave it to Sarah to simultaneously support me and make things more complicated. But her enthusiasm is well-meaning, if overwhelming.

The realization that I’ve committed to attending Jason’s game—to facing him and the hockey world head-on after three years of careful avoidance—hits me suddenly. Am I ready for this? For the stares and whispers, the inevitable confrontation (on or off the ice), the resurrection of gossip I thought was long buried?

But the alternative—hiding away, letting Jason believe he still controls my choices—is worse. I’ve spent three years rebuilding my life on my terms. I refuse to surrender that autonomy now, just because my ex-husband might make a scene.

And if I’m being completely honest with myself, part of me wants to see Brody play. Wants to understand this other side of him, the professional athlete whose skill and dedication have shaped his life. The man whose quick reflexes and strategic thinking make him valuable enough to be traded across the country multiple times.

I move to my desk and open my laptop, determined to finish my editing project before bed. But my mind keeps drifting to Brody—to the careful way he handled our conversation, the respect he showed for my boundaries, the quiet intensity in his eyes when he talked about Jason.

This is dangerous territory, this growing attachment to a man I barely know. My rational mind knows this. Warns against it. Reminds me how spectacularly wrong I was about Jason, how easily I was fooled by charm and attention.

But Brody isn’t Jason. And maybe, just maybe, it’s time to trust my judgment again. To believe that I’ve learned enough from my past mistakes to recognize the difference between genuine interest and manipulation.

Wednesday seems very far away. And Thursday’s game—my first time seeing Jason in over a year—feels both too distant and too close.

One step at a time, I remind myself, focusing back on my work. Traditional dating. Clear boundaries. Eyes wide open.

And absolutely no more “not-coffee” until I’m sure of what I want.

Even if part of me already knows.

* * *

Wednesday arrives with a crisis I didn’t anticipate. I’m in the middle of finalizing edits on a technical manual when a deafening pop followed by an ominous gurgling sound emanates from my utility closet. Ten minutes and several frantic calls later, I’ve confirmed my worst fear: my water heater has given up the ghost. Maintenance can’t replace it until tomorrow at the earliest.

No hot water. On the day of my first official date with Brody.

I glance at the clock—4:15 PM. Our reservation is at 7:30. The emergency plumber who’d examined my defunct water heater had cheerfully suggested I “borrow a neighbor’s shower.” As if that were a normal request to make.

Sarah is my usual emergency contact, but she’s in Scottsdale at a client meeting until at least 7:00, which would leave me rushing. The gym is closed for renovations. My other neighbors are either strangers or a retired couple I exchange pleasantries with but certainly don’t know well enough to ask for shower privileges.

Which leaves exactly one option.

“This is ridiculous,” I mutter to myself, gathering shampoo, conditioner, and body wash into a shower caddy like a college freshman. “Just reschedule the date.”

But I don’t want to reschedule. Despite my lingering concerns, I’ve been looking forward to tonight—to starting over properly with clear boundaries and expectations. To seeing if there’s something real beneath the attraction and chemistry.

Before I can second-guess myself any further, I march next door and press Brody’s doorbell.

He answers almost immediately, dressed in athletic shorts and a Phoenix training t-shirt, hair damp as if he’s just showered himself. His eyebrows raise slightly at the sight of me—or more specifically, at the sight of my improvised shower caddy.

“Elliot,” he says, surprised. “I thought we were meeting at seven?”

“My water heater exploded.” The words tumble out in a rush. “Not literally exploded, just... died. Dramatically. With alarming noises. Maintenance can’t replace it until tomorrow, and I have a client video call in an hour, and I was hoping—” I pause, suddenly aware of how awkward this request is, especially given our recent history. “I was hoping I could use your shower. Before our date. I promise I’ll be quick.”

A slow smile spreads across his face. “You know, when I fantasized about you naked in my house, this wasn’t exactly the scenario I had in mind.”

I feel my cheeks flush but can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips. “Is that a yes or a no, Carter?”

“Yes, of course. Mi casa, su casa. Or at least, mi shower, su shower.” He steps back, ushering me in. “Bathroom’s upstairs, first door on the right. Towels are in the cabinet under the sink. Feel free to use whatever you need.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate it.” I glance at my watch. “I should have time to shower now before my call if that’s okay? Then I’ll finish getting ready for our date after my meeting.”

“Whatever works for you,” he says easily. “I’m just watching game tape anyway.” He gestures to his laptop on the coffee table, paused on what looks like a Miami game.

“Thank you. I promise I won’t take long.”

“Take your time,” he says, settling back onto his couch. “I’m not going anywhere. Though I might charge a small fee for shower usage.”

“Oh?” I raise an eyebrow. “And what would that be?”

“One smile. The real kind, where your eyes crinkle at the corners.”

I can’t help it—I give him exactly what he’s asked for, a genuine smile that makes his eyes light up in response.

“Payment accepted,” he says softly. “Shower’s all yours.”

His bathroom is surprisingly neat for a bachelor athlete—clean white tiles, minimal clutter, everything in its place. It smells like him, that combination of soap and subtle cologne that I’ve come to associate with his presence. There’s something oddly personal about seeing his razor on the sink edge, his toothbrush in the holder, the brand of shampoo he uses.

I set my shower caddy on the counter and turn on the water, telling myself this is perfectly normal and not at all intimate or charged with unspoken tension.

The shower helps. Hot water washes away both the physical discomfort of my interrupted morning routine and some of my awkwardness about the situation. By the time I’m finished, wrapped in one of Brody’s fluffy navy towels, I feel almost composed again.

Then I realize my mistake.

In my hurry to gather shower necessities, I’d forgotten to bring a change of clothes. I have my work outfit from today—jeans and a casual blouse—but nothing to change into. Which means I need to walk from the bathroom to the guest room, where I’ve left my bag with clean clothes, in just a towel.

“Perfect,” I mutter to myself. “Absolutely perfect planning, Elliot.”

I briefly consider putting my work clothes back on, but they’re slightly damp from the steam and would need to come right back off again. No, the towel is the only option. It’s large enough to be decent, covering me from chest to mid-thigh. And surely Brody is still downstairs, focused on his game footage.

I gather my things, secure the towel tightly around me, and crack open the bathroom door. The hallway is clear. The guest bedroom is only about fifteen feet away, directly across the hall. I can make it without incident.

I take a deep breath and step into the hallway.

Just as Brody emerges from the top of the stairs.

We both freeze. His eyes widen, then immediately dart away before snapping back, as if he’s fighting an internal battle about where to look. I’m suddenly, intensely aware of how little the towel covers—my bare shoulders, the length of my legs, the droplets of water still trailing down my skin.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, voice rougher than usual. “I was just... I thought you might need...” He holds up a hair dryer. “I realized you might not have brought one.”

“Oh.” The thoughtfulness of the gesture momentarily distracts me from my state of undress. “Thank you. That’s very considerate.”

Neither of us moves. The air between us feels charged, electric with possibilities we’ve agreed not to pursue. His gaze is carefully controlled, but I can see the effort it takes, the way his jaw tightens and his breath seems to catch.

“I forgot to bring clothes into the bathroom,” I explain unnecessarily. “I was just heading to the guest room to change.”

“Right.” He nods, still holding the hair dryer like some kind of shield. “I’ll just... put this in the bathroom for you.”

He steps forward at the same moment I do, bringing us briefly, alarmingly close in the narrow hallway. I can smell his cologne, see the pulse jumping in his throat, feel the heat radiating from his body. For one suspended moment, I think he might break our new rules, might reach for me despite our agreement to take things slow.

Instead, he steps carefully around me, maintaining as much distance as the hallway allows, and disappears into the bathroom.

I hurry into the guest room, closing the door behind me with more force than necessary, heart pounding as if I’ve run a marathon. It was just an awkward encounter, I tell myself. An accidental collision of timing. Nothing worth overthinking.

But as I dress for my video call, I can’t help the smirk that forms on my lips. Before opening the door, I call out, “Hey Carter, is it my imagination, or were you blushing out there?”

There’s a pause, then his voice through the door, amusement evident, “Absolutely not. Professional athletes don’t blush. We... tactically redden for intimidation purposes.”

I laugh, feeling the tension dissipate. “Very intimidating. I was terrified.”

“As you should be,” he calls back. “Hockey’s most fearsome defenseman, caught off guard by a woman in a towel. My reputation will never recover.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” I assure him, smiling to myself. “Though it might cost you.”

“Name your price, Waltman.”

“I’ll think of something suitable,” I promise, feeling lighter than I have in days. “Something appropriately... intimidating.”

His groan makes me laugh again. Maybe this “taking it slow” thing is going to be harder than I thought—but for the first time in a long time, I’m looking forward to the challenge.