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ELLIOT

I slept on my couch last night. Not because of nightmares or some deep psychological trauma, but because I fell asleep during an episode of “The Great British Bake Off” with a half-empty glass of wine balanced precariously on the arm of the couch. In my defense, it’s the bread episode. Nothing knocks me out faster than watching people stare anxiously at rising dough.

The sound that wakes me isn’t my alarm but a crash from next door, followed by what’s unmistakably a hockey stick hitting hardwood floors. A muffled “Sorry!” filters through our shared wall right before I hear the front door only a few feet from mine slam shut.

I pull my fuzzy throw blanket over my head. Brody Carter. First line, left defense, professional hockey player. And the bane of my existence for exactly three weeks and two days.

“It’s not enough that I used to be married to one,” I mumble into my blanket fort. “Now I have to live next to one.”

Five years ago, I would never have imagined this would be my life. Back then, I was Elliot Martinez, wife of Phoenix hockey star Jason Martinez. I had meticulously crafted the perfect image of a supportive NHL wife—attending every home game, hosting team dinners, smiling for photos while subtly fading into the background as Jason commanded the spotlight. It was exhausting, this constant performance of the perfect hockey marriage.

Especially when my husband made it abundantly clear that I was failing at it.

“You’re so difficult, Ellie,” he’d say, his voice laced with that calculated disappointment that always made me shrink. “Most wives would be grateful to be in your position.”

I believed him then. Believed I was the problem—too independent, too intellectual, too reluctant to fully embrace hockey wife culture. Too frigid, as he eventually called me during one particularly cruel argument.

Then came the texts. Messages from a woman named Amber, an ice girl for the team. Then more messages from others. Three years ago, I’d finally gathered the courage to leave him, enduring a public divorce that painted me as the cold, demanding wife who couldn’t keep NHL star Jason Martinez happy.

I shake off the memories and reach for my phone, which is buzzing with an incoming text.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!! Coffee in 30? I have gossip and pastries!

I groan, squinting at the time. 7:30 AM. Only Sarah Harrington, Tommy’s wife, and my only remaining link to the hockey world, would consider this a reasonable hour for birthday celebrations. But the pastries...

Coffee maker warming up. Don’t be late with those pastries.

I sigh, dragging myself off the couch. Might as well start the coffee if I’m going to be awake anyway.

Standing at my kitchen counter, I measure coffee beans with the mindset of someone who recognizes that caffeine is not a luxury but a necessity. Sure, I could buy one of those fully automated machines, but this ritual has been my morning anchor for almost a decade.

The doorbell rings just as I finish steaming the milk. Sarah never could wait the full thirty minutes.

“You’re early,” I call as I pull open the door. But instead of my best friend holding promised pastries, I find myself face-to-chest with a very shirtless, very sweaty Brody Carter.

“Morning, neighbor-lady!” His smile is criminally bright for this hour. “Sorry to bother you, but I locked myself out after my run.”

My eyes betray me, traveling from his face down to—nope. I force my gaze back up to his face, ignoring the tattoo snaking around his shoulder that’s practically begging to be traced.

“And this is my problem because...?” I raise an eyebrow, clutching my coffee mug like a shield.

“Because you’re the only other person awake?” His sheepish grin is infuriatingly charming. “And I know you have coffee.”

“How do you know I have coffee?”

“I can smell it.” He leans forward slightly. “And it smells incredible. Way better than whatever my machine makes.”

I narrow my eyes. “So you want to use my phone? To call a locksmith?”

“Actually...” He runs a hand through his damp hair. “I was hoping I could use your patio to climb over to mine? The fence between them is low enough that I could?—”

“You want to parkour your way into your own house? At 7:45 in the morning?”

“When you say it like that, it sounds ridiculous.”

“It is ridiculous.”

We stare at each other for a moment, a standoff of stubbornness. Then I catch sight of Mrs. Abernathy walking her poodle down the street, her eyes practically popping out of her head at the sight of a half-naked man on my doorstep.

“Get inside,” I mutter, stepping back. “Before the neighborhood watch calls the police.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” he says, brushing past me. The scent of his cologne mingles with sweat in a way that shouldn’t be appealing but somehow is.

“I’m a reluctant Samaritan,” I correct, closing the door firmly. “There’s a difference.”

He stands in my kitchen looking both out of place and strangely at home. Like a golden retriever in a library—wrong setting, but too endearing to be truly disruptive.

“Coffee?” I offer, against my better judgment.

“God, yes.” His relief is palpable. “I haven’t had decent coffee since?—”

“Since you moved in three weeks ago and insisted your fancy Italian machine was better than ‘manual labor’?” I grab a mug from the cabinet. “I remember the speech.”

He has the grace to look embarrassed. “You heard that?”

“The walls are thin.” I pour him a cup, sliding it across the counter. “And you’re not exactly quiet.”

“So I’ve been told.” Something in his tone makes me glance up, catching the mischief in his eyes.

“Don’t.” I point a warning finger at him. “It’s too early for innuendo.”

“I didn’t say anything!” His innocent act needs work.

“You were thinking it.”

“True.” He takes a sip of coffee and closes his eyes in what can only be described as caffeinated ecstasy. “Oh my god, this is amazing.”

I try not to feel smug and fail miserably. “I know.”

The doorbell rings again, and this time it has to be Sarah. Great. Exactly what I need—my best friend meeting the half-naked hockey player in my kitchen before 8 AM on my birthday.

“That’s Sarah,” I explain, already moving toward the door. “My friend with the pastries.”

“Should I...” He gestures vaguely toward my patio doors. “Make myself scarce?”

“Too late for that.” I pull open the front door to find Sarah holding a pink bakery box and wearing the biggest grin I’ve seen since her wedding day.

“Happy—” Her words die as her gaze fixes on something—someone—over my shoulder. “Birthday?” she finishes, her voice rising with delighted suspicion.

“It’s not what you think,” I say immediately.

“It never is with you.” She sweeps past me, eyes locked on Brody. “Well, hello there Mr. Carter.”

“Hi Sarah,” Brody sounds almost sheepish. “I’m Elliot’s neighbor.”

“And I’m her best friend.” Sarah’s giving me a look that promises a thorough interrogation. “And the occasional voice of reason.”

“Occasional is right,” I mutter, closing the door.

“Oh yeah?” Brody’s expression brightens. “Tommy did mention something about you being friends with?—”

“Friends with who?” I prompt, suspicious now.

Sarah and Brody exchange a look that raises every red flag in my arsenal.

“No one,” Sarah says too quickly. “So, why exactly are you shirtless in my best friend’s kitchen at 8 in the morning?”

“I locked myself out after my run.”

“And naturally, you came to Elliot for help.” Sarah’s smile is pure mischief. “How neighborly of you both.”

“I’m letting him use my patio to break into his own house,” I clarify, pouring Sarah a cup of coffee. “That’s it.”

“Mmhmm.” Sarah accepts the coffee without taking her eyes off Brody. “And the shirt situation?”

“I always run without one,” he explains with a shrug that does unfair things to his shoulder muscles. “Better aerodynamics.”

I snort into my coffee. “Is that the scientific term?”

“Absolutely.” His grin is infectious. “I read it in... Sports Illustrated.”

“Very academic source, I’m sure.”

Sarah looks between us like she’s watching the world’s most entertaining tennis match. “Well, don’t let me interrupt whatever this is.” She gestures between us. “I just came to deliver birthday pastries and gossip.”

Brody’s eyes widen. “It’s your birthday?”

“Don’t make it a thing,” I warn.

“It’s absolutely a thing,” Sarah counters, opening the bakery box to reveal an assortment of pastries that make my mouth water. “Turning thirty-six deserves celebration.”

“Thirty-six?” Brody looks at me with new interest. “I would have guessed…”

“Careful,” I say, reaching for an almond croissant. “That sentence rarely ends well.”

“I would have guessed younger,” he finishes with a wink.

Sarah laughs. “He’s good.”

“He’s practiced,” I correct, but can’t help the small smile. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I ask him. “A training or a... whatever it is hockey players do in the morning?”

“Practice isn’t until 11,” he says, helping himself to a chocolate-filled pastry. “But I should probably try to break into my house before the neighbors call the HOA.”

“Mrs. Abernathy already saw you,” I inform him. “You’ve got about twenty minutes before the emergency meeting is convened.”

He winces. “That bad?”

“She heads the committee on ‘neighborhood decency.’” I make air quotes around the phrase. “Your shirtless presence has probably violated at least three bylaws.”

“Then I better make my escape.” He drains his coffee cup and sets it in the sink—actual points for that—then moves toward my patio doors. “Thanks for the rescue. And the coffee.”

“Don’t make it a habit,” I call after him.

He pauses at the door, that infuriating grin back in place. “The rescue or the coffee?”

“Either. Both.”

“No promises.” He winks before disappearing onto my patio.

Sarah and I watch through the glass as he easily vaults over the low fence separating our spaces, then uses some kind of acrobatic move to climb into his own window.

“Show-off,” I mutter.

“Athletic,” Sarah corrects, her tone appreciative. “Very athletic.”

“Stop ogling my neighbor.”

“I’m married, not blind.” She turns to me with a grin that spells trouble. “So, how long has this been going on?”

“Nothing is going on.” I bite into my croissant with more force than necessary. “He locked himself out. End of story.”

“Mmhmm.” She settles onto a barstool, clearly preparing for a lengthy interrogation. “And the fact that he’s the gorgeous hockey player next door who happens to know my husband has nothing to do with why you’re blushing?”

“I’m not blushing. It’s...” I search for an excuse. “Coffee flush.”

“Not a thing.” She leans forward. “But you know what is a thing? The way he looked at you.”

“With desperation for caffeine?”

“With interest.” She emphasizes the word like it’s something scandalous. “The kind of interest Tommy had when he first saw me.”

“Now you’re just being dramatic.” I reach for another pastry. “He’s probably like that with everyone. Plus, he’s too young.”

“He’s twenty-seven, not seventeen.” Sarah’s expression turns serious. “And not all athletes are like Jason.”

The name hangs in the air between us. Jason Martinez. My ex-husband. Star forward and world-class cheater.

“This isn’t about Jason.” But even I can hear the lie in my voice.

“Isn’t it?” Sarah’s tone softens. “Elle, it’s been three years. Not every hockey player is going to?—”

“I know that.” I cut her off. “Logically, I know that. But?—”

“But emotionally, you’re still waiting for the other skate to drop.” She reaches across the counter to squeeze my hand. “I get it. I do. But maybe it’s time to stop assuming the worst.”

“Says the woman who married the exception to the rule.” I soften the words with a smile. Tommy Harrington is one of the good ones—loyal, kind, and completely devoted to Sarah.

“Exceptions exist for a reason.” She waggles her eyebrows. “And one just climbed over your fence looking like a Men’s Health cover model.”

A crash from next door, followed by muffled cursing, makes us both laugh.

“A slightly clumsy Men’s Health cover model,” I amend.

“Perfect for you, then.” Sarah sips her coffee, eyes twinkling. “Since you appreciate a man who isn’t too perfect.”

“I appreciate a man who stays on his side of the fence,” I counter.

“Liar.” She grins. “Now, do you want your birthday gossip or not?”

“Hit me.” I settle in, grateful for the change of subject.

“So, you know that charity gala I’m planning next month?” Sarah leans forward conspiratorially. “Guess which team just committed to full attendance?”

My stomach drops. “Please don’t say?—”

“Yep!” She nods, confirming my fears. “And their left defenseman specifically asked if you would be there.”

“How does he even know about me?” I demand. “We literally just met!”

Sarah’s expression turns guilty. “Well...”

“Sarah.” My voice holds a warning. “What did you do?”

“Nothing!” She protests. “Tommy might have mentioned that his wife’s best friend lived in the same complex where Brody was moving. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” I repeat skeptically.

“And he might have shown him a picture from my birthday party last year.” She winces at my glare. “The one where you wore that black dress?”

“I’m going to kill you.” I drop my head into my hands. “Both of you.”

“In our defense, we had no idea he’d recognize you from the team events back when you were with Jason.” Sarah’s voice gentles. “Tommy said he asked about you the minute he saw the photo. Wanted to know if you were still married.”

I lift my head slowly. “He recognized me from back then?”

Sarah nods. “Apparently, you made quite an impression.”

A memory surfaces—Jason’s annual Christmas party, years ago. A rookie nervously asking me about the book I was reading while the other players drank themselves into oblivion. I’d thought him sweet but forgettable.

Clearly, I’d been wrong about the forgettable part.

“This doesn’t change anything,” I insist, even as I’m trying to ignore my heart pounding in my chest. “He’s still too young, still a hockey player, and still my neighbor.”

“All valid points,” Sarah agrees too readily. “So you won’t mind if I tell him you’re definitely not coming to the gala?”

I narrow my eyes. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m the best,” she corrects, grinning. “And you know it.”

Another crash from next door, followed by what sounds like a hockey bag being dumped on the floor.

“Your clumsy neighbor seems to be having some trouble over there,” Sarah observes innocently.

“Not my problem.” I reach for my third pastry. “It’s my birthday. I have plans.”

“Yoga and takeout isn’t plans.”

“It’s a tradition.”

“A sad tradition.” Sarah checks her watch and stands. “Speaking of traditions, I have to run. Tommy’s taking me to breakfast before practice.”

“Abandoning me on my birthday? Some best friend.”

“I brought pastries and gossip,” she reminds me, grabbing her purse. “And tonight, I’m bringing wine and more gossip. Seven o’clock. Wear something nice.”

“I’m not going out.” I follow her to the door. “It’s Thursday. I never go out on Thursdays.”

“It’s your birthday.” She kisses my cheek. “Break some rules.”

“My yoga mat will be very disappointed.”

“Your yoga mat will survive.” She opens the door, then pauses. “Oh, and fair warning? Tommy invited Brody to join us tonight.”

“Sarah!” I hiss. “You can’t just?—”

“Already did.” She’s halfway down the walkway before I can properly yell at her. “Seven o’clock! I won’t take no for an answer!”

I close the door, leaning my forehead against it with a groan. This is not how I’d planned to spend my birthday.

My phone pings with a notification. A social media reminder from something I haven’t thought about in months. Someone I’d hoped to never think about again.

A birthday memory from years ago: Happy Birthday to my best girl! Miss our birthday traditions. Remember that time in Cabo?

The photo hits me like a physical blow. Us on the beach, my hair longer then, his arm around my waist. His smile bright and charming for the camera. The same smile he wore in court three years later, explaining to the judge how his “indiscretions” were really just a cry for help.

A crash from next door startles me out of the memory.

“Sorry!” Brody’s voice carries through clearly. “Totally meant to do that.”

I catch myself smiling and immediately school my expression. My finger hovers over the post.

Another crash, this one followed by what sounds like something collapsing onto his floors.

“All good!” His voice again, slightly strained. “Part of my pre-practice routine. Very professional.”

A laugh escapes before I can catch it.

My phone buzzes again—this time a text from an unknown number.

Sarah gave me your number, hope that’s okay. Hypothetically speaking, if someone wanted to thank their neighbor for saving them from both public indecency charges AND caffeine withdrawal, what would be an appropriate thank-you gift? Asking for a friend.

Despite myself, I smile as I type.

Hypothetically speaking, that neighbor might appreciate silence before 9 AM on weekends and for all hockey equipment to stay firmly on the correct side of the fence.

The response is immediate.

Noted. And what are this hypothetical neighbor’s thoughts on going to dinner with clumsy hockey players?

I bite my lip, considering my response. Sarah’s words echo in my mind: Not every hockey player is going to break your heart.

She thinks one coffee and one fence-jumping incident doesn’t warrant dinner.

What about one coffee, one fence-jumping incident, AND remembering exactly how she took down an entire table of hockey wives at the team BBQ with nothing but literary references and a glass of champagne?

My breath catches. How does he remember that?

Before I can respond, another text comes through.

For the record, it was the single most impressive takedown I’ve ever witnessed. Jason’s face was priceless.

I can’t help laughing.

In my defense, they started it by suggesting Jane Austen was “just writing fancy romance novels.”

No defense needed. Literary justice was served.

I save his number in my phone, hesitating only a moment before naming the contact.

Another crash sounds from next door and I try and fail to suppress my smile. Maybe breaking a few birthday traditions wouldn’t be the worst thing.

“ALL FINE!” Brody calls through the wall. “TOTALLY UNDER CONTROL!”

Okay, so maybe I’m about to make some questionable birthday decisions. But as I glance at my phone, at Jason’s post still waiting to be dealt with, I realize something important:

Moving forward sometimes means climbing over fences you’ve built yourself.

With a decisive tap, I delete the photo and then—feeling particularly bold—change my lock screen from a nature photo to a simple phrase: “Break some rules.”