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ELLIOT

T here are moments in life that divide everything into “before” and “after.” For me, one such moment was watching my new almost-boyfriend punch my ex-husband in the face at a live hockey game while I sat in the family section wearing said almost-boyfriend’s jersey.

Not exactly how I’d planned my re-entry into the hockey world.

The morning after I wake to the smell of coffee and bacon wafting through my townhouse. For one disoriented moment, I panic—who’s in my kitchen?—before remembering last night.

Last night. When Brody Carter had systematically dismantled every doubt, every insecurity, every hesitation I’d built up after Jason. When he’d shown me with exquisite attention exactly how wrong my ex-husband had been about me, about my desires, about my capacity for pleasure.

It’s just past seven, but knowing Brody he’s probably been up since 6:00 AM doing whatever morning routine professional athletes consider essential to survival.

After a quick brush of teeth and hair, I throw on a robe and pad to the kitchen. The sight that greets me is both domestic and jarring—Brody Carter, bruised jaw and all, expertly flipping pancakes while my coffee maker hums in the background. He’s shirtless and wearing jeans, feet bare, hair still damp from a shower.

“Morning,” he says, spotting me in the doorway. “Hope pancakes are okay. I found blueberries in your fridge that were about a day away from becoming a science experiment.”

“Pancakes are perfect,” I manage, still processing this tableau of domesticity. I slide onto a barstool, watching him work. “So... is this a regular feature of the Brody Carter experience? Breakfast after thoroughly ruining a woman for all other men?”

He nearly drops the spatula, his eyes flying to mine. A slow grin spreads across his face when he sees my smirk. “Only for the ones who make that particular sound. You know the one.” He mimics a breathy little gasp that makes my cheeks burn.

“I did not sound like that,” I protest, though the memory of exactly how vocal I’d been makes me squirm slightly.

“Oh, you absolutely did.” He slides a perfect blueberry pancake onto a plate. “Multiple times. I was keeping count.”

“How very thorough of you.”

“I’m nothing if not thorough in my research.” He sets the plate in front of me, leaning across the counter until his face is inches from mine. “Though I think I need to collect more data points. For accuracy.”

“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” I murmur, unable to resist leaning in to brush my lips against his. “Research?”

“If it helps, you can consider it a very hands-on peer review of Jason’s clearly flawed assessment of your... abilities.”

The reference to Jason’s cruel dismissal of my sexuality should sting, but somehow, in the warm light of morning after what Brody had shown me about myself, it only makes me laugh.

“And what’s your professional assessment, Dr. Carter?”

His expression turns serious despite the playful setup. “That you, Elliot Waltman, are the sexiest, most responsive, most sensual woman I’ve ever had the privilege of touching. And that your ex-husband was an idiot who didn’t deserve you in any capacity.”

The simple sincerity beneath the flirtation catches me off guard, warming places inside me that have nothing to do with physical desire.

“Quite the review,” I say softly. “Though I think your methodology might be biased.”

“Happy to repeat the experiment,” he offers with exaggerated innocence. “As many times as needed for conclusive results.”

I take a bite of pancake to hide my smile. “These are really good.”

“Thanks. It’s my mom’s recipe.” He sits beside me with his own plate. “How are you feeling about everything? Last night was... intense.”

It’s a loaded question this early and before coffee. How am I feeling? About watching my ex-husband and current... boyfriend (the word feels strange even in the privacy of my thoughts) try to beat each other senseless? About the fact that I’m suddenly back in the hockey world I spent years avoiding? About the jersey laying on my living room floor with “CARTER” emblazoned across the back?

“I’m processing,” I say honestly, moving to pour myself coffee. “It was a lot.”

“Understatement of the century.” He slides a perfect blueberry pancake onto a plate. “I just got a text from the team PR department asking if I want to issue a statement. Apparently the fight is trending on social media.”

My stomach drops. “Trending? As in viral?”

“As in ‘someone caught the whole thing on video including Jason’s lewd gesture and my reaction’ viral.” He looks genuinely apologetic. “I’m sorry, Elliot. I didn’t think about the social media angle.”

I sink onto a barstool, coffee mug clutched like a lifeline. “Great. So I’m internet famous again. Just when the ‘Jason Martinez’s ex-wife’ Google results were starting to fade.”

“If it helps, most of the comments are firmly Team Brody,” he offers, setting a plate of pancakes in front of me. “Turns out people don’t love it when a player makes obscene gestures toward his ex in the stands.”

“Shocking,” I mutter, but take a bite of pancake anyway. It’s delicious, of course. “These are really good.”

“Thanks. It’s my mom’s recipe.” He sits beside me with his own plate. “I really am sorry about the publicity. I should have kept my cool.”

I study him—the bruise blooming along his jaw, the genuine remorse in his eyes, the way he’s trying so hard to gauge my reaction. It’s hard to stay annoyed when he looks so contrite after fighting to defend his person.

“It’s not ideal,” I admit. “But I’m not sorry you hit him. Is that terrible?”

“Not from my perspective,” he says with a careful grin. “Though Coach might disagree. I have to meet with him after breakfast for what I assume will be a creative and profanity-laden lecture on professional conduct.”

“Worth it?”

His eyes find mine, something intensely earnest in their depths. “Completely worth it.”

We eat in companionable silence for a few minutes, it feels natural, having him here in my kitchen, sharing breakfast in the morning. Too natural, maybe, for how new this all is.

“So,” he says eventually, “about last night. The whole ‘officially dating’ thing. I want to make sure that wasn’t just adrenaline or gratitude for my caveman heroics.”

I almost choke on my coffee. “Gratitude? You think I agreed to date you out of gratitude?”

“Well, when you put it that way, it sounds ridiculous.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I just meant... it was an emotional night. Heat of the moment decisions and all that.”

“Brody.” I set down my fork, meeting his gaze directly. “I don’t make life decisions based on emotion or adrenaline or gratitude. I’m a methodical overthinker who analyzes every option to death before committing.”

“I’ve noticed,” he says with a small smile.

“So when I say we’re officially dating, it means I’ve thought about it. Probably overthought it. And decided it’s worth the risk.” I take a sip of coffee, suddenly needing something to do with my hands. “Despite your questionable tendency to solve problems with your fists.”

“Only very specific problems,” he clarifies. “Namely, ones that insult you.”

“Still not necessary,” I remind him. “But I appreciate the sentiment, if not the execution.”

His phone buzzes from the counter, and he glances at it with a grimace. “Coach. Apparently my punishment meeting has been moved up. I need to head to the facility in twenty.”

“Duty calls,” I say, trying not to feel disappointed at the abbreviated breakfast. “Will you be suspended?”

“Probably not. First offense this season, and Jason was clearly provoking me.” He stands, collecting our plates. “Maybe a PR thing, definitely some extra conditioning. Worth every burpee.”

As he rinses the dishes (another point in his favor—he cleans up after himself), I remember the email that arrived yesterday before all the hockey drama.

“I need to tell you something,” I say. “I’m going to be away next week. There’s a technical editing conference in Seattle I’ve committed to attend.”

He turns, leaning against the counter. “Seattle? For how long?”

“A week. Monday through Friday.” I watch his face carefully, looking for signs of displeasure or suspicion—Jason always hated when I traveled without him. “It’s been planned for months, and I’m giving a presentation on Wednesday and moderating a panel on Thursday.”

“That’s awesome,” he says, his enthusiasm seeming genuine. “Big honor to moderate, right?”

“It is, actually,” I say, surprised by his understanding. “The panel includes some major names in the field.”

“You’ll crush it.” He dries his hands on a dish towel. “Our road trip starts Tuesday—three games in four nights against the California teams. So our timing actually works out pretty well.”

No suspicion. No passive-aggressive comments about abandonment. Just simple acceptance of my professional commitments. It shouldn’t feel revolutionary, but it does.

“We can text,” I offer. “Maybe call when our schedules align.”

“Definitely.” He moves closer, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear in a gesture that’s becoming familiar. “And we’ll have our second official date when we’re both back. Something special to make up for the abbreviated breakfast.”

“Sounds nice.” I smile, still getting used to this—to planning future dates, to having someone look at me the way he’s looking at me now, like I’m something precious.

“Can I kiss you goodbye?” he asks, those blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “Or is that too presumptuous for our official dating status?”

“I think we’ve established that kissing is acceptable,” I say dryly, though my heart picks up speed. “Just be careful of your jaw.”

“Worth the risk,” he murmurs, leaning down to press his lips to mine.

It’s a gentle kiss, mindful of his injuries, but there’s a promise in it that makes my toes curl against the kitchen tile. When he pulls back, we’re both a little breathless.

“I’ll call you after my meeting with Coach,” he says, reluctantly stepping away. “Let you know my punishment details.”

“I’ll be waiting with bated breath,” I joke, following him to the door.

“You mock, but I might have to do wall sits until my legs fall off. Your sympathy would be appreciated.”

“I’ll prepare my sympathetic expression,” I promise, gesturing to my face with exaggerated solemnity.

He laughs, wincing again at the motion. “See you later, Waltman.”

“Good luck with Coach, Carter.”

As the door closes behind him, I lean against it, trying to process the whirlwind of the past twenty-four hours. I’m dating Brody Carter. My ex-husband got punched on national television. I’m wearing hockey jerseys again. My carefully constructed post-Jason life has been completely upended in the span of a month.

And strangely, I don’t hate it.

My phone rings from the bedroom—Sarah, of course, who else would call this early?

“Please tell me you’ve seen the video,” she says without preamble when I answer.

“Good morning to you too,” I reply, moving back to the kitchen to refill my coffee. “And no, I haven’t seen it yet.”

“Oh my god, you have to watch it. It’s GLORIOUS. Jason looks like he got hit by a truck. Brody’s right hook is the stuff of legends. The hockey blogs are calling it the ‘Boyfriend Beatdown.’”

I nearly spit out my coffee. “The what?”

“‘Boyfriend Beatdown.’ Tommy says the guys in the locker room were using it too. Since you were wearing Brody’s jersey and everything, everyone’s assuming you two are officially together.” She pauses. “Are you? Officially together? You never texted me after the game.”

“Yes,” I admit, unable to keep the smile from my voice. “As of last night, we’re officially dating.”

Sarah’s squeal is so high-pitched I have to hold the phone away from my ear. “FINALLY! Tommy owes me fifty bucks. He said you’d make Brody wait at least another week before making it official.”

“You two really need to stop betting on my love life.”

“Never. It’s too entertaining.” I can practically hear her grinning. “So, how’s lover boy’s face this morning? Those were some solid punches Jason landed.”

“Bruised but functional. He made me breakfast.”

“Breakfast, huh?” Her tone turns suggestive. “Does that mean he stayed over?”

My silence is telling enough.

“Marry him,” Sarah says immediately. “Any man who makes pancakes after getting in a fistfight defending your honor is husband material.”

“We’ve been officially dating for approximately twelve hours. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“Fine, fine.” She acquiesces too easily, which immediately makes me suspicious. “So what’s the plan for your week in Seattle? Long-distance relationship already?”

“It’s a work conference, not a relocation,” I remind her. “We’ll text and call. It’s only five days.”

“Just be careful, Elle.” Sarah’s tone turns serious. “Tommy says the team’s worried he might try to get to you directly since his on-ice attempt backfired so spectacularly.”

A chill runs through me. “Jason wouldn’t?—”

“Wouldn’t he?” she interrupts. “He’s never taken public humiliation well, and last night was about as humiliating as it gets. Just... be careful, okay? Maybe it’s good timing that you’ll be out of town.”

“You’re being paranoid,” I say, though a small part of me wonders if she’s right. “Jason’s moved on. He doesn’t care about me anymore.”

“Jason doesn’t care about you,” she agrees. “But he cares immensely about his ego, which took a massive hit last night. Just promise me you’ll keep your phone handy and call if anything weird happens.”

“I promise.” I glance at the time. “I need to get ready. I have a client call at ten.”

“Fine, abandon me,” she says dramatically. “But we’re having dinner before you leave for Seattle. Tommy wants to show Brody the video of Jason’s face after that first punch. It’s frame-worthy.”

“You two are bloodthirsty,” I note, not entirely disapproving.

“Hockey culture, baby. See you later!”

After we hang up, I find myself drawn to my laptop, curiosity winning out over my usual avoidance of hockey social media. A quick search for “Phoenix Miami fight” brings up dozens of results, including multiple versions of the same video.

I click on one, holding my breath as the footage begins.

It’s clearly shot from the stands, not a professional broadcast, which somehow makes it more intimate. The camera follows the play, then zooms in as Jason delivers the dangerous hit that sends Brody into the boards. There’s a moment where Brody is clearly dazed, struggling to his feet.

Then the camera pans to follow Jason as he skates past the family section—past me—making a gesture so crude and dismissive that I feel my cheeks heat even watching it on video. The camera swings back just in time to catch Brody charging across the ice, gloves already dropping, fury evident even through his helmet.

The fight itself is quick but brutal—Brody’s first punch landing square on Jason’s jaw, snapping his head back. Jason recovers, lands a few of his own, but it’s clear Brody has the upper hand. When the officials finally separate them, Jason’s face is already swelling, blood visible on his lips.

The video continues, zooming in on me in the stands—and I’m surprised by what I see. I look composed, almost regal, watching the altercation with what appears to be clinical detachment. The Brody jersey stands out vibrantly against the crowd, a statement more eloquent than any words.

The video ends with Brody being escorted down the tunnel, pausing to look up at me with a raised hand—part apology, part confirmation that this was for me, about me.

I close the laptop, emotions tangled. On one level, it’s humiliating to have my personal life played out so publicly again. On another, there’s a vindication in seeing Jason called out for his behavior, in not being the only one who knows how cruel he can be.

And on yet another level, there’s something undeniably powerful about being the woman Brody Carter was willing to risk suspension for. Not that I needed or wanted his protection, but the sheer unfiltered emotion behind his reaction—that speaks to something authentic, something leagues away from Jason’s calculated charm.

My phone buzzes with a text.

Survived Coach’s wrath. 5AM conditioning for a week. Plus I have to do a PR appearance at the children’s hospital. Could be worse.

That seems steep. Worth it?

Would do it again for double the punishment. How’s your morning going?

I watched the video. It’s... something.

On a scale of 1-10, how mortified are you by my caveman display?

I consider this, trying to sort through my complicated feelings.

Maybe a 4? Less mortified than I expected to be. Though the “Boyfriend Beatdown” nickname the hockey blogs are using could push it higher.

Oh god, they’re calling it that? I’m sorry. And also secretly flattered. But mostly sorry.

At least “boyfriend” is accurate now. Silver linings.

Best silver lining ever. Gotta go - team meeting about travel games. Apparently “no more fighting” is the theme.

Shocking strategy. Try to follow instructions this time.

No promises. Talk later?

Later.

I set the phone down, smiling despite myself. There’s something refreshing about his honesty, his lack of calculation or manipulation. What you see is what you get with Brody Carter—from his impulsive defense of my honor to his genuine remorse about the public spectacle.

It’s nothing like being with Jason, where every interaction was layered with subtext and performance, where I never quite knew if I was getting the real person or the carefully crafted image.

My client call goes well, the technical document I’ve been editing finally taking shape after weeks of revisions. Work has always been my constant, my anchor during the tumultuous years of my marriage and divorce. There’s a satisfaction in clear rules, in problems with definitive solutions, in words that mean exactly what they say.

Around noon, another text comes through—not from Brody this time, but from an unknown number.

Enjoy the spotlight while it lasts, Elliot. Your boy toy made a serious mistake last night. Hope you’re worth the consequences.

My blood runs cold. There’s no signature, but it doesn’t need one. Only Jason would send something so vaguely threatening while simultaneously playing the victim.

I debate how to respond, or whether to respond at all. Engaging with Jason never leads anywhere good—he twists words, manipulates situations, gaslights with professional skill. But ignoring him sometimes escalates his behavior.

Before I can decide, another text arrives.

Seattle next week, right? Your little technical editing conference? Funny coincidence - Miami plays there Wednesday night. Maybe we could catch up. For old times’ sake.

The implied threat sends cold spiraling through me. How does he know about the conference? Unless he’s been keeping tabs on me, which is disturbing in itself.

I should tell Brody. That’s what someone in a healthy relationship would do—share when their ex is making threatening comments. But a part of me hesitates. Brody’s already on thin ice with Coach after the fight. If he knew Jason was texting me, threatening to show up in Seattle...

My phone rings again—Sarah, as if summoned by my anxious thoughts.

“Did you get a weird text?” she asks immediately. “Tommy just told me that Matthews is bragging that Jason’s been making threats in the Miami locker room.”

“How did you know?” I sink onto my couch, suddenly exhausted.

“Because I know Jason,” she says grimly. “What did he say?”

I read her the texts verbatim, trying to keep my voice steady.

“That manipulative bastard,” she seethes. “He’s trying to scare you, to show he still has power over you. Classic Jason move.”

“It’s working,” I admit. “How does he even know about Seattle?”

“The hockey world is small, Elle.” She pauses. “Are you going to tell Brody?”

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “He’s already in trouble because of me. If he knew Jason was texting threats...”

“He would want to know,” Sarah says firmly. “Relationship 101: don’t hide important stuff, especially threats from psycho exes.”

“Jason’s not a psycho,” I automatically correct. “Just a narcissist with control issues.”

“Psycho, schmycho. Tell Brody.”

She’s right, I know she’s right, but the prospect of dragging Brody further into my Jason drama makes my stomach churn. We’ve been officially dating for less than a day. This isn’t exactly the baggage most new relationships have to handle.

“I’ll think about it,” I promise, which is as close to agreement as I can manage right now.

“That’s Elliot-speak for ‘I’ll overthink it until I’ve convinced myself not to,’” Sarah says knowingly. “Just remember, hiding stuff from Brody makes you more like Jason, not less.”

That hits home in a way she probably intended. “Low blow, Harrington.”

“Sometimes you need a low blow to get through that stubborn brain of yours.” Her tone softens. “He cares about you, Elle. For real. Don’t push him away because you’re scared.”

After we hang up, I stare at the texts from Jason, debating my options. Block the number? Respond with a firm boundary? Pretend I never received them?

None feels quite right.

In the end, I decide on a different approach.

I’m not playing this game, Jason. No meet-ups, no old times’ sake. Let’s both move on like adults.

I hit send before I can overthink it, then immediately block the number. Whether he’s serious about showing up in Seattle or just trying to rattle me, engaging further won’t help.

The question of whether to tell Brody remains. Sarah’s words echo in my mind: Hiding stuff from Brody makes you more like Jason, not less.

I pick up my phone again, composing a new text.

Are you free for dinner tonight? There’s something I need to talk to you about.

His response comes almost immediately.

For you? Always. My place or yours?

Mine. 7:00?

I’ll be there. Everything okay?

We’ll talk tonight. Nothing to worry about.

It’s not entirely true—there is something to worry about, or at least something to discuss. But it’s a start, an attempt at the honesty that forms the foundation of the relationship I want to build.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of work and preparations for Seattle. I book my flight, confirm my hotel reservation, review my panel notes. Normal, productive tasks that help push thoughts of Jason to the background.

At 6:45, I change into jeans and a comfortable sweater, nothing fancy but still presentable. This isn’t a date; it’s a conversation. An important one.

Brody arrives precisely at 7:00, a small bouquet of daisies in hand. “Thought these might brighten your day,” he says, kissing my cheek as he enters. “You seemed stressed in your texts.”

“Thank you.” I accept the flowers, touched by the gesture. “They’re lovely.”

“Not as lovely as you, but they try their best.” He follows me to the kitchen, leaning against the counter as I find a vase. “So, what did you want to talk about? You had me a little worried.”

I take a deep breath, arranging the daisies before turning to face him. “I got texts from Jason today. Vaguely threatening ones.”

His expression darkens immediately, the bruise along his jaw seeming more pronounced as he tenses. “What kind of threats?”

I show him the screenshots I took before blocking the number, watching his face carefully as he reads. His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking near his temple, but he remains outwardly calm.

“He knows about Seattle,” Brody says finally, looking up. “How?”

“Hockey gossip network, probably,” I say with a shrug that aims for casual but falls short. “Sarah thinks someone mentioned I’d be away, and he connected the dots.”

“And Miami plays Seattle on Wednesday.” Brody hands back my phone, his movements controlled, deliberate. “Convenient timing.”

“It’s probably just intimidation tactics,” I say, though I’m not entirely convinced. “Jason likes to feel in control, especially when his ego’s been bruised.”

“And I definitely bruised it.” Brody rubs a hand across his jaw. “I’m sorry, Elliot. This is my fault.”

“No, it’s not,” I say firmly. “Jason’s behavior is his responsibility, not yours. I just... wanted you to know. No secrets.”

He studies me for a moment, something warm flickering in his eyes. “Thank you for telling me. I know that wasn’t easy.”

“Sarah may have pointed out that hiding things isn’t a great relationship foundation,” I admit. “She can be annoyingly wise sometimes.”

“Remind me to thank her.” He steps closer, hands settling lightly on my waist. “So what’s the plan? Do you want to skip Seattle?”

I blink, surprised by the question. “Skip the conference? No, absolutely not. I’m moderating a panel. It’s important for my career.”

“Just checking,” he says with a small smile. “Some guys might expect you to cancel. I’m not one of them.”

Another stark contrast to Jason, who viewed my career as a hobby, something secondary to his own professional needs. The acknowledgment that my work matters, that it’s not negotiable—it means more than I can express.

“I’ll be careful in Seattle,” I promise. “Stay in public places, keep my phone handy. Jason’s a lot of things, but he’s not stupid. He won’t try anything overt.”

“Still, maybe I could?—”

“No,” I interrupt, guessing his train of thought. “You’re not changing your road trip plans or trying to get to Seattle. That’s exactly what he wants—to disrupt our lives, to show he still has power.”

Brody sighs, conceding the point. “You’re right. But I don’t have to like it.”

“I don’t like it either,” I admit. “But I refuse to let him dictate my choices. Again.”

“That’s my girl.” He presses a kiss to my forehead. “Strong, stubborn, and smarter than all of us.”

“Don’t forget grammatically superior,” I add, trying to lighten the mood.

“How could I? Your semicolon usage is irresistible.” He pulls back slightly, expression turning more serious. “We’ll figure this out, Elliot. Together. Jason’s not going to mess this up for us.”

The conviction in his voice, the steady assurance in his eyes—it settles something in me, a fear I hadn’t fully acknowledged until it began to ease.

“I believe you,” I say, and realize with mild surprise that I mean it. “Now, are you staying for dinner, or was this just a quick ‘my ex is threatening us’ update?”

“Is that even a question? Of course I’m staying.” He releases me to open the refrigerator. “What are we working with here? I make a mean pasta primavera.”

“You don’t have to cook again,” I protest, even as he starts pulling out vegetables. “We could order in.”

“I want to,” he says simply. “Cooking relaxes me. Especially when I’m trying not to think about punching Jason Martinez again.”

“If you insist.” I hop onto a barstool to watch him work. “Though I feel I should contribute something to this relationship beyond being the cause of hockey fights.”

“You contribute plenty,” he assures me, beginning to chop an onion with professional precision. “Intelligence, wit, a vocabulary that frequently sends me to the dictionary, and legs that look spectacular no matter what you wear.”

“Objectification doesn’t help your case, Carter.”

“Appreciation,” he corrects with a grin. “And that’s just the surface stuff. The real contribution is how you make me feel—like I’m more than just a hockey player, like what I think matters, like I’m worth getting to know beyond the jersey.”

I’m momentarily speechless, caught off guard by the sincerity beneath his teasing.

“See? She’s stunned by my emotional intelligence,” he says to an imaginary audience. “Years of therapy paying off, folks.”

“You’re in therapy?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“Was, for a couple years after my dad died.” He continues chopping, eyes on the task. “Hockey culture isn’t big on men discussing feelings, but my sister insisted. Best thing I ever did, honestly.”

Another layer revealed, another facet of this man I’m just beginning to know. Every conversation seems to uncover something new—depth where I least expect it, vulnerability beneath the confident exterior.

“My therapist would be very proud of my communication skills right now,” I offer in return. “Showing you the texts instead of overthinking myself into silence.”

“Progress for both of us,” he agrees. “Now, how do you feel about garlic? Because my pasta calls for an almost scandalous amount.”

“The more the better,” I say, settling in to watch him cook. “Vampires beware.”

The evening unfolds in a gentle rhythm—Brody cooking while I set the table, comfortable conversation over delicious food, a shared bottle of wine as we move to the couch afterward. The threats from Jason hover at the edges of our awareness but don’t dominate, don’t poison the time together.

“So,” Brody says as we sit side by side, his arm around my shoulders. “Second official date when we’re both back from our respective trips? I was thinking something special. Maybe that new restaurant downtown?”

“That sounds nice,” I agree, relaxing against him. “Though at this point, I’d be happy with takeout and a movie. It’s the company that matters.”

“Careful, Waltman,” he teases. “That sounds dangerously close to sentimentality.”

“Must be the wine talking,” I deflect, but we both know better.

As the evening winds down, there’s an unspoken question hanging between us—will he stay? Should he stay? We’re officially dating, but the boundaries are still being established, the pace still being set.

In the end, it’s Brody who resolves the tension, standing as the clock approaches eleven. “I should get going. Early practice tomorrow, and you probably have conference prep.”

I walk him to the door, a complex mix of relief and disappointment swirling in my chest. Relief that he’s respecting the pace I need; disappointment that I’m apparently not quite ready to overcome my own hesitations.

“Text me when you land in Seattle?” he asks, pausing in the doorway. “Just so I know you arrived safely.”

“I will,” I promise. “And you do the same for California.”

“Deal.” He leans down to kiss me goodnight, a gentle press of lips that conveys affection without pressure. “Sleep well, Elliot.”

“You too, Brody.”

As the door closes behind him, I lean against it, a small smile playing at my lips despite the day’s complications. There are threats and uncertainties ahead—Jason’s texts, a week apart, the nascent relationship we’re still figuring out. But for perhaps the first time since my divorce, those challenges don’t feel insurmountable.

Because I’m not facing them alone. And the man who stands beside me isn’t Jason—isn’t controlling or calculating or cruel. He’s Brody, with his early morning pancakes and daisies and willingness to step back when I need space.

My phone buzzes with a text.

Made it all the way home. Twelve steps. New personal record.

Impressive athleticism. Gold star.

I live for your approval. Sweet dreams, Waltman.

Sweet dreams, Carter.

I set the phone down, still smiling. Whatever Jason may have planned, whatever challenges the next week might bring, I’m going to Seattle with my head held high. Because I’m reclaiming my life, one step at a time.

And some of those steps may lead back to the hockey player next door, with his bruised jaw and gentle hands and heart on his sleeve.

I think I’m okay with that.