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brODY

I ’ve paced the twelve steps between my front door and Elliot’s three times trying to work up the nerve to knock. Our first official date, and I’m acting like a teenager going to prom.

“Get it together, Carter,” I mutter to myself, adjusting the collar of my button-down for the tenth time. It’s just dinner. With a woman I’ve already kissed. Who lives next door. Whose coffee order I know by heart. No big deal.

Except it is a big deal. Because this isn’t “not-coffee” or a charity gala or tacos. This is intentional. Deliberate. The start of something real, if I don’t screw it up.

I check my watch—6:58 PM. I told her I’d pick her up at 7:00. Showing up early seems eager; late seems careless. Time management has never been more stressful.

At exactly 7:00, I knock on her door, bouquet of wildflowers in hand. Not roses—too cliché—but colorful blooms that reminded me of her. The door opens, and my carefully rehearsed greeting evaporates at the sight of her.

“Hi,” I manage, extending the flowers like a peace offering. “These are for you.”

“Thank you.” She accepts them with a small smile. “They’re beautiful. Let me put them in water before we go.”

I follow her inside, watching as she fills a vase and arranges the flowers. There’s something mesmerizing about the simple domesticity of it—this brilliant, beautiful woman handling flowers I brought her.

“So,” she says, turning back to me. “Where are we going for this traditional date?”

“That’s a surprise,” I reply mysteriously. “But I can tell you it’s not a sports bar or a hockey-themed restaurant.”

“Setting the bar high, I see.”

“Only the best for our official first date.” I offer my arm. “Your chariot awaits.”

“A chariot?” She raises an eyebrow as she locks her door. “Ambitious transportation choice.”

“Well, it’s an SUV, but it has seat warmers, which I think technically qualifies as a chariot in some cultures.”

She laughs, the sound making my chest warm. “The ancient Romans were big on lumbar support.”

“Exactly. Julius Caesar was very particular about his seat settings.”

We reach my car, and I open the passenger door for her with a slight bow. She rolls her eyes but seems pleased by the gesture, settling into the seat with a smoothing of her dress.

“You look beautiful, by the way,” I say once I’m behind the wheel. “I meant to say that immediately, but my brain short-circuited.”

“Thank you.” Is she blushing slightly, or is it just the fading evening light? “You clean up pretty well yourself. Very un-hockey player-like.”

I glance down at my dark jeans and navy button-down. “Is that a compliment or an insult to my profession?”

“Let’s call it an observation.”

As we drive through Phoenix, I find myself sneaking glances at her profile—the elegant line of her neck, the slight furrow in her brow as she watches the unfamiliar route.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going now?” she asks after we pass downtown.

“Patience, Waltman.” I take a turn onto a tree-lined street. “We’re almost there.”

“You know, for someone who claims to want a traditional date, kidnapping is a bold choice.”

“If I were kidnapping you, I wouldn’t have brought flowers first. That’s just inefficient villain behavior.”

She snorts. “At least you’re a considerate abductor.”

We pull up to our destination—a converted warehouse with soft lighting spilling from industrial windows and a discreet sign reading “Vesuvio.”

“A restaurant?” she guesses.

“Not just any restaurant.” I park and come around to open her door. “This is Phoenix’s best-kept culinary secret. Chef-owned, farm-to-table, and absolutely no televisions showing sports.”

“My three criteria for the perfect dining establishment,” she says dryly, accepting my hand as she exits the car.

Inside, the space is warm and inviting—exposed brick walls, wooden tables, and Edison bulbs creating a cozy glow. The host greets me by name, leading us to a corner table partly secluded by a reclaimed wooden partition.

“You’ve been here before,” Elliot observes once we’re seated.

“A few times. The chef is an old friend from culinary classes I took during off-seasons.” I unfold my napkin. “He promised me the best table in the house when I told him how important tonight was.”

“Important, huh?” She studies me over the top of her menu. “No pressure or anything.”

“Extremely important,” I confirm solemnly. “This is my one chance to prove I can plan a date that doesn’t involve hockey pucks or body checking.”

“A rare skill among your people.”

“We’re not known for our romantic finesse,” I agree. “More for our missing teeth and ability to function while concussed.”

“Attractive qualities in a potential partner.”

“I’ve still got all my teeth,” I offer, flashing a smile. “Though I can’t promise my brain is entirely undamaged.”

“I gathered that when you moved next door to a woman you talked to once three years ago.”

I wince dramatically. “Ouch. Going for the jugular early, I see.”

But she’s smiling, the barb lacking any real sting. We’ve moved past that hurdle, it seems, at least enough to joke about it.

The waiter arrives with water and a bottle of wine I pre-ordered—a California red I remembered her enjoying at our first dinner with Sarah and Tommy. Elliot raises an eyebrow as he pours.

“Planning ahead?” she asks after he leaves.

“I didn’t want to look indecisive.” I lift my glass. “To traditional first dates and new beginnings.”

“To clear boundaries and honest conversations,” she counters, touching her glass to mine.

There’s an ease between us that wasn’t there at the gala or even during our serious talk at my place. We’re both trying, both invested in making this work. It shows in the way she leans forward when I speak, in how I find myself memorizing the sound of her laugh.

“So,” she says after our entrées arrive, “big game tomorrow. Are you ready?”

I appreciate that she’s broaching the subject rather than avoiding it. “As ready as we can be. Miami’s playing well, but we’ve got home ice advantage and something to prove.”

“And the Jason factor?” Her voice is casual, but her eyes are watchful.

“Just another player we need to shut down,” I say. “Nothing personal on the ice.”

She gives me a skeptical look. “Really? Because Sarah says the whole team is talking about the potential showdown between you two.”

“Sarah has a flair for the dramatic,” I counter, cutting my steak with perhaps more force than necessary. “It’s a hockey game, not the final scene in a Western.”

“So no high noon shootout at center ice?”

“Coach would bench me for the rest of the season,” I say with absolute certainty. “We’re fighting for a playoff position. Personal feelings don’t factor in.”

“Hmm.” She takes a sip of wine, clearly unconvinced.

“What about you?” I ask, changing the subject slightly. “Ready to return to the arena after three years away?”

“Not really,” she admits with surprising candor.

I reach across the table, covering her hand with mine. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone, you know.”

“I know.” She turns her hand to briefly squeeze mine before withdrawing. “This is for me. I spent three years avoiding anything connected to hockey because of him. It’s time I reclaim my life on my terms.”

“Then I’m honored to be part of your reclamation project,” I say with a slight bow of my head.

“You’re not a project, Carter.” Her tone is suddenly serious. “Don’t ever think that.”

“What am I, then?” I ask, genuinely curious about how she sees this—sees us.

She considers this, head tilted slightly in that way I find impossibly endearing. “A plot twist,” she decides finally. “One I didn’t see coming.”

“I’ll take that,” I say, grinning. “Better than a chapter you’re planning to edit out.”

“The book’s not finished yet,” she cautions. “No guarantees on the final draft.”

“Fair enough.” I raise my glass again. “To works in progress.”

“To works in progress,” she echoes, a soft smile playing at her lips.

The rest of dinner passes in a comfortable rhythm of conversation and shared dessert (a tiramisu she declares “almost as good as Marcel’s”). When the check arrives, she reaches for her purse, but I wave her off.

“Traditional date, remember? I asked, I pay.”

“Very traditional,” she notes. “Next time it’s my treat, then.”

Next time. The casual confirmation that there will be a next time makes my heart do a ridiculous little flip.

“Deal,” I agree, trying to sound nonchalant while internally doing cartwheels.

The drive home feels shorter somehow, our conversation flowing easily from topics serious to ridiculous. I tell her about my sister’s kids and their budding hockey obsessions. She shares stories about her most grammatically challenged clients and the time she nearly got fired for correcting the CEO’s memoir.

When we arrive back at our complex, I walk her to her door, hyperaware that this is the traditional end-of-date moment. The will-they-won’t-they kiss scenario that’s been played out in countless movies.

“I had a nice time tonight,” she says, turning to face me at her door.

“Nice enough for a second traditional date?” I ask, trying not to sound too eager.

“I think that could be arranged.” She smiles, her keys jingling slightly in her hand. “Though the Miami game is tomorrow, so your schedule might be complicated for a while.”

“I’ll always make time for you,” I say, the sincerity in my voice surprising even me. “Hockey’s just a job. This—” I gesture between us, “—this matters more.”

“Careful, Carter. That kind of talk might make me think you’re serious about this.”

“I am serious about this,” I say quietly. “About you.”

She studies me for a long moment, something vulnerable flickering in her eyes. Then, with a decisiveness that takes my breath away, she steps forward, rises onto her tiptoes, and presses a soft kiss to my lips.

What begins as gentle exploration quickly transforms as she leans into me, her body saying what words haven’t yet. My hands find her waist, and in one fluid motion, I lift her up. She makes a small sound of surprise against my mouth as I carry her the few steps to her porch railing, setting her down carefully on the wide wooden beam.

“Is this okay?” I murmur against her lips, not wanting to presume.

Her answer is to wrap her legs around my waist, drawing me into the space between her thighs. “More than okay,” she breathes, her fingers threading through my hair.

The new position puts us at perfect eye level, and I take a moment to simply look at her—the flush spreading across her cheeks, the slight swell of her lips from our kiss, the way her eyes have darkened to the color of stormy seas.

“You’re extraordinary,” I tell her, voice rough with desire. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

She smiles, a slow, confident curve of her lips that sends heat through my entire body. “Show me.”

I need no further invitation. My mouth finds hers again, hungrier this time, one hand braced against the railing behind her while the other slides up her back, cradling her head. Her legs tighten around me as she arches into the kiss, her hands exploring my shoulders, my back, finally slipping beneath my shirt to trace patterns on bare skin.

“God, Elliot,” I groan as her cool fingers map the contours of my lower back. “The things I want to do with you...”

“Tell me,” she challenges, her breath warm against my ear as I press kisses along the column of her throat.

“I’ve thought about this for three years,” I confess, voice rough with desire as I press my lips to the sensitive hollow of her throat. “Three years of wondering if I’d ever get to touch you like this, if you’d ever look at me the way you’re looking at me right now.”

Her breath catches, and I feel the shiver that runs through her. My hand slides up her thigh, bunching the fabric of her dress higher, fingertips tracing patterns on her bare skin.

“Every woman I’ve met since that Christmas party, I compared to you,” I continue, my words a heated whisper against her skin. “No one else made me forget how to breathe just by walking into a room. No one else haunted me like you did. Like you do.” I bring my lips to her ear, feeling the way she trembles against me. “I want to spend hours learning every sound you make when I touch you, every way your body responds to mine. I want to make up for every second of those three years I spent wanting you?—”

“Well! This is certainly more exciting than my evening reruns of Matlock.”

The crisp voice shatters our heated bubble, and we break apart—though not as far as we might have, given Elliot’s position on the railing and my position between her legs. We turn to find an elegantly dressed older woman standing at the edge of the porch, a tiny poodle in a ridiculous sweater tucked under one arm.

“Mrs. Abernathy,” Elliot’s voice is strangled, her legs quickly unwrapping from my waist though her hands remain on my shoulders, possibly for balance.

“Don’t stop on my account,” the older woman says airily, adjusting what appears to be an actual monocle. “Frankly, it’s refreshing to see someone using their porch for something other than package collection.”

I carefully help Elliot down from the railing, keeping one arm around her waist as she smooths her dress. “I’m Brody,” I offer, extending my free hand. “Brody Carter. I’m?—”

“The hockey player who moved in next door and has been making eyes at our Elliot since arrival,” Mrs. Abernathy finishes, shifting her dog to shake my hand. Her grip is surprisingly firm. “Lydia Abernathy. Former combat nurse, current neighborhood surveillance expert.”

“Combat nurse?” I can’t help but ask.

“Vietnam,” she says with a dismissive wave. “Nothing compared to the battles fought in our HOA meetings, I assure you.”

Elliot seems to have regained her composure. “Mrs. Abernathy, I didn’t realize you took your evening walk so late.”

“I don’t, typically. But Archibald here,” she holds up the dog, who gives us an unimpressed sniff, “decided my azaleas needed fertilizing. So now we’re both being punished with extra exercise.” She peers at us over her glasses. “Though clearly some are getting more cardiovascular benefits than others tonight.”

Despite my embarrassment, I can’t help but laugh. “You’ve got quite a perspective, Mrs. Abernathy.”

“Comes with outliving two husbands and one particularly persistent IRS auditor,” she replies with a wink. “Now, don’t let me interrupt whatever athletic event was about to transpire. Though I might suggest moving the playing field indoors.” She gives us a knowing look. “Not all our neighbors appreciate live entertainment, more’s the pity.”

“We were just saying goodnight,” Elliot explains, though the flush on her cheeks belies her casual tone.

“With remarkable thoroughness,” Mrs. Abernathy observes. “Harold—that’s husband number two—could take lessons. Though he did have other redeeming qualities.” She gives me an appraising once-over. “I imagine you share some of those qualities, Mr. Carter.”

Elliot makes a choking sound beside me.

“I should get Archibald home before he catches cold,” Mrs. Abernathy continues serenely. “These designer dog sweaters are more fashion than function, I’m afraid. Elliot, dear, your book club meeting is still on for Saturday? I’ve prepared my thoughts on why Mr. Darcy is literary history’s most overrated brooder.”

“Yes, still on,” Elliot confirms, sounding relieved at the change of subject.

“Well,” Mrs. Abernathy says with an approving nod, “at least someone in this complex is enjoying themselves. Carry on with your... reunion.” She gives us a knowing look. “Though perhaps tone down the descriptive monologue, hmm? Mrs. Finchley’s windows are right over there, and that woman’s hearing is supernaturally good for someone pushing eighty.”

With that parting advice, she turns and glides down the porch steps with remarkable grace for her age, her dog looking back at us with what I swear is judgment in its tiny eyes.

Once she’s out of earshot, Elliot collapses against me, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. “Oh my god,” she gasps. “I will never be able to look her in the eye again.”

“Did that really just happen?” I ask, still processing the entire surreal encounter.

“Welcome to life at The Pines,” Elliot says, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes. “Where privacy is a theoretical concept and Mrs. Abernathy knows everything before it happens.”

I gently tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, marveling at how we’ve somehow gone from heated passion to neighborhood surveillance in the span of minutes. “So much for our ‘taking it slow’ plan.”

“Well,” she says thoughtfully, “technically we’re still fully clothed and standing on my porch. That’s something.”

“Barely,” I admit. “Another five minutes and Mrs. Abernathy would have gotten a much more educational show.”

She blushes beautifully at that. “We should probably say goodnight for real. Before someone else decides to take a late-night constitutional.”

“Probably wise.” I lean in for one last kiss—softer now, but with the promise of more humming beneath the surface. “Goodnight, Elliot. Thank you for an unforgettable evening.”

“Goodnight, Brody.” Her smile is both sweet and knowing in a way that makes my heart race. “I’ll see you tomorrow. At the game.”

“I can’t wait.”

She slips inside, the door closing softly behind her, leaving me standing there like a lovesick teenager. Which, if I’m being honest with myself, is exactly what I am. Three years of carrying a torch based on one conversation and infrequent meetings at team events, and now here I am, completely gone after a few weeks of actually knowing her.

“Pathetic, Carter,” I mutter to myself as I walk the short distance to my own door. But I’m still smiling.

Inside, I hang my keys on the hook and check my phone, which I’d deliberately left at home to avoid distractions. Multiple texts from Tommy (all variations on “how’s the date going?”), one from Jensen (reminding me about our pre-game meeting time), and one from the team’s equipment manager confirming something I’d arranged earlier.

I reply to Jensen and Tommy, then open my closet, where a package sits waiting—a brand new Carter Phoenix jersey in women’s sizing. The ultimate hockey girlfriend gesture, sending your jersey for her to wear. A public claiming that says “she’s with me” to everyone in the arena.

Is it too much? Too soon? Probably. But something about seeing Elliot tonight—her determination to face Jason on her terms, her refusal to hide—makes me think she might appreciate the symbolism.

It’s a risk. She might see it as presumptuous, might be annoyed at the implication. But something tells me she’ll understand the gesture for what it is—not a claim of ownership, but an offer of alliance. A visible sign that she’s no longer facing the hockey world alone.

I arrange for a morning delivery, then get ready for bed, mind already shifting to tomorrow’s game. Miami on home ice. Jason Martinez potentially looking to start trouble. And Elliot watching from the stands.