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17

ELLIOT

M y alarm goes off at 6:30 AM, though I’ve been awake since just past 5, staring at my ceiling and replaying last night’s kiss on loop. The way Brody lifted me onto the railing. The heat in his voice when he confessed he’d thought about me for three years. The mortifying interruption by Mrs. Abernathy.

“Just a kiss,” I remind myself as I shuffle to the kitchen to start coffee. “A very good kiss, but still just a kiss.”

The doorbell rings as I’m measuring coffee grounds, making me jump and spill some on the counter. Who’s at my door at 6:45 in the morning?

When I peek through the peephole, I see a delivery person holding a large flat package. Not Brody, then. Both relief and disappointment wash through me.

“Delivery for Elliot Waltman,” the courier says when I open the door. “Signature required.”

I sign for the package, curious and slightly wary. I haven’t ordered anything, and it’s too early for most standard deliveries.

Back in the kitchen, I examine the unmarked box while my coffee brews. No return address, just my name and address in typed print. I slice through the tape carefully and pull back the cardboard to reveal tissue paper and a folded note on top.

No pressure to wear this. But if you want to make a statement, this says it all. Either way, I’m honored you’re coming. - B

Beneath the tissue paper lies a Phoenix home jersey. I lift it out, already knowing whose name and number will be on the back before I turn it over.

CARTER. 43.

“Oh,” I breathe, running my fingers over the stitched letters.

This is significant. It’s a public declaration, a claiming. Wives and girlfriends wear their partners’ jerseys to games as proud displays of allegiance. I used to wear Jason’s—first as his girlfriend, then as his wife—until the day I found evidence of his infidelity on his phone and threw it in the donation bin on my way home.

I haven’t worn a jersey since.

Setting it down, I pour my coffee and try to process this development with my still sleep-fogged brain. Is Brody being presumptuous, assuming I’ll want to wear his jersey after one date? Or is this thoughtful, giving me the option to make a statement if I choose to?

The Miami game. Jason will be there. Of course.

This isn’t just a jersey; it’s a gauntlet. A declaration of where—and with whom—my allegiance now lies.

My phone buzzes with a text from Sarah.

Good morning! Picking you up at 5 for pre-game dinner. Black dress code still in effect?

I stare at the jersey spread across my kitchen island. For three years, I’ve avoided the hockey world. Avoided Jason’s teammates and their wives. Avoided being Elliot Martinez, hockey WAG turned cautionary tale.

If I show up at the game in Brody’s jersey, there’s no hiding. Everyone will know. Everyone will talk. Jason will see.

Dress code TBD. Will confirm later.

Intriguing! Something changed after your date?

Maybe. Talk later. Work calls.

I drape the jersey over the back of a chair, my mind still turning over the implications. By the time I’m dressed for the day and settling into my home office, I’ve analyzed the situation from every angle, the way I approach complex editing projects.

Pro: Wearing the jersey would be a powerful statement of moving on. A declaration that I’m not hiding anymore.

Con: It’s very public, very fast. Brody and I have had exactly one real date.

Pro: It would infuriate Jason, which I shouldn’t find satisfying but absolutely do.

Con: It might appear desperate or petty—the ex-wife dating another hockey player to get back at her ex-husband.

Pro: I’ve seen how Brody looks at me. This isn’t casual for him. Hasn’t been since that Christmas party three years ago, apparently.

Con: The hockey world gossips. I’d be putting myself back in the spotlight I’ve avoided for three years.

Pro: I really, really want to.

That last one catches me off guard, making me pause in my systematic analysis. I want to wear his jersey. I want to make that statement. I want to see Brody’s face when he spots me in the stands, his name emblazoned across my back.

My phone rings—a client with questions about their technical documentation. I answer automatically, switching into work mode, but my eyes keep drifting to the jersey hanging on my chair.

On impulse, I pick it up and head to my bedroom. Without overthinking it, I slip it over my head. The fabric settles over my shoulders, much larger than anything I’d normally wear. In the mirror, I’m struck by how different I look—stronger somehow, more confident.

I hesitate only briefly before slipping off my pants, leaving my bare legs exposed below the jersey that hits mid-thigh. The effect is intimate without being overtly provocative—a woman comfortable in her skin, wearing a man’s jersey.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I take a photo in the mirror, angling to capture my reflection from the side—the curve of my hip, the length of my legs, my hair loose around my shoulders. I study the image, surprised by how much I like what I see. Not the careful, composed technical editor, but a woman unafraid to make a statement.

I add a simple message.

Just trying it on. For science.

My finger hovers over the send button for only a second before I press it, a small thrill running through me as the message delivers to Brody.

Science is important. But fair warning—you in my jersey is doing things to me that might not be appropriate to discuss before noon.

I laugh, feeling strangely empowered by his reaction.

Before noon? What arbitrary time restriction is this? I thought hockey players were always... ready to play.

His response makes me blush despite myself.

Always ready for you, Waltman. But I’m in a team meeting and Jensen is starting to give me weird looks for my “stupid grin.” We’ll continue this discussion later. Preferably in person.

I’m still smiling when Sarah calls a few minutes later.

“WELL?” she demands without preamble. “What’s the mysterious dress code development? Did Brody give you something scandalous to wear after your date?”

I laugh despite myself. “Not exactly scandalous.”

“Then what?” Her impatience is palpable even through the phone. “Did he ask you to wear Phoenix colors? Did he—OH MY GOD.”

“What?”

“He sent you a jersey, didn’t he? HIS jersey.”

I glance down at the red fabric still draped over my body. “Maybe.”

Her shriek nearly bursts my eardrum. “ELLIOT WALTMAN! This is HUGE! Are you going to wear it? Please tell me you’re going to wear it. Jason’s face would be absolutely priceless. I would pay actual money to see that.”

“I haven’t officially decided,” I say, though I’ve already sent Brody photographic evidence suggesting otherwise. “It’s a big statement for someone I’ve only been on one official date with.”

“Oh please,” Sarah scoffs. “You two have been circling each other since that Christmas party years ago. One date or fifty, there’s something real there.”

“Maybe.” I smooth the fabric over my thigh, thinking of Brody’s reaction to my photo. “But if I wear this, everyone will be talking. The ex-Mrs. Martinez wearing Carter’s jersey? The gossip will be relentless.”

“Good! Let them talk.” Sarah’s voice turns serious. “Elliot, you’ve spent three years hiding. Rebuilding your life in the shadows while Jason got to keep the spotlight, the friends, the hockey world. Maybe it’s time to step back into the light. On your terms.”

“I’m actually leaning that way,” I admit, thinking of the strange confidence I felt taking that photo. “But don’t sound so smug about it.”

“I KNEW IT!” she exclaims. “Tommy mentioned Brody’s been grinning like an idiot all morning. You did something, didn’t you?”

I feel heat rise to my cheeks. “I may have sent him a photo of me in the jersey. Nothing scandalous.”

“ELLIOT WALTMAN!” Sarah sounds absolutely delighted. “Who are you and what have you done with my perpetually cautious friend?”

“Still me,” I laugh, “just...testing some boundaries.”

“Well, test away! Tommy says Brody nearly walked into a door at practice. Whatever you did clearly worked.”

The knowledge sends a pleasant thrill through me. “Really?”

“Really. Operation Revenge Hotness is officially launched!”

“It’s not about revenge,” I protest, though there’s a small, petty part of me that absolutely enjoys the thought of Jason’s reaction. “It’s about reclaiming my right to be there. To move on. On my terms.”

“Sure, sure,” Sarah says, not believing me for a second. “Very empowered and mature. Can I still take pictures of Jason’s face when he sees you, though?”

“Absolutely not,” I say firmly, though I’m laughing. “We’re going to be calm, dignified adults about this.”

“Speak for yourself. I’m bringing popcorn.”

After we hang up, I stare at my reflection a moment longer, then carefully remove the jersey and hang it up for tonight. There’s a fluttering in my stomach—anticipation or anxiety or some combination of both. But beneath it, a quiet certainty.

I realize with a start that I never actually told him my plans for the jersey.

What do you think? Too much?

His response takes longer this time. When it finally comes, it’s not what I expected.

I think you should wear whatever makes YOU comfortable. But if you’re asking if I’d like to see you in my jersey? The answer is hell yes. And if you’re asking if I’d be proud to have you wear my name? More than I can express in a text.

Also, Coach just confiscated my phone for “inappropriate use during tactical discussions.” Worth it. Talk later. You’re beautiful, Elliot. In my jersey or out of it.

I set my phone down, unable to stop smiling. For the first time in three years, I’m actually looking forward to a hockey game. To making a statement. To claiming something—someone—for myself, without apology or hesitation.

This is the right choice. For the right reasons. Mostly.