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ELLIOT

S eattle is nothing like Phoenix. The crisp air carries salt from the nearby Sound, the skyline a dramatic contrast of modern architecture against snow-capped mountains. Even the rain—a persistent drizzle that would cause panic in Arizona—feels refreshing after months of desert heat.

I adjust my conference lanyard, pausing in the hotel lobby before today’s panel. Four days into the Technical Editing Symposium, and I’m enjoying myself. The presentations have been engaging, the networking productive, and the distance from Phoenix—from hockey drama and complicated new relationships—oddly freeing.

Brody and I have texted daily, his road trip updates arriving with clockwork regularity. Game recaps, hotel complaints, and sweetly dorky check-ins that never fail to make me smile. He’s been respectful of my schedule, never demanding immediate responses or becoming passive-aggressive when I take hours to reply.

It’s a stark contrast to my marriage, when Jason would call repeatedly if I didn’t answer immediately, his messages evolving from concerned to accusatory to hostile within an hour.

“Elliot Waltman?” A voice breaks through my thoughts. “I thought that was you!”

I turn to find a tall woman in a tailored navy suit approaching. “Catherine Porter, Nexium Technologies. I was in your presentation yesterday—the one on technical documentation for medical devices? Absolutely brilliant.”

“Thank you,” I reply, shaking her hand. “It was a fascinating discussion.”

“Don’t sell yourself short.” She gestures toward the coffee bar. “Can I buy you a pre-session caffeine boost? I’d love to pick your brain about something.”

Twenty minutes later, I’ve learned that Nexium Technologies is expanding their Seattle headquarters, and Catherine is their newly appointed Director of Communications.

“We need someone who understands both the technical side and can present it clearly,” she explains. “Someone who can enforce standards without alienating the engineers. Based on what I’ve seen, I think you’d be perfect.”

“That’s flattering,” I say carefully, “but I’m based in Phoenix.”

Catherine waves this off. “We’re open to remote work for the right candidate. Or relocation, of course. Seattle’s a lovely city.”

“I’m sure it is,” I reply noncommittally, though I can’t deny the flicker of interest her words ignite. Phoenix has never really felt like home, even after three years post-divorce. It’s always been Jason’s city.

And now with Brody... complicated doesn’t begin to cover it.

“Here’s my card,” Catherine says, sliding it across the table. “The position hasn’t been formally posted yet. I’d love to chat more before I leave tomorrow.”

I accept the card, tucking it into my conference folder. “I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I ask.” She stands. “But Elliot? We pay very competitively, and our benefits package is exceptional.”

As she walks away, I examine the card, running my thumb over the embossed logo. A job in Seattle. A fresh start in a city without my ex-husband’s shadow. The thought is... appealing.

But there’s Brody. Brody, who texts good morning and goodnight every day. Brody, who respects my career. Brody, who looks at me like I’m some kind of miracle.

Moving to Seattle would end whatever we’re building. Long-distance relationships are hard enough when both people are fully committed; they’re nearly impossible at the beginning stages.

I put the card away. It’s just a conversation, not a job offer. No need to borrow trouble.

My phone vibrates with a text.

Good luck with your day! Wish I could be there to see your panel, but I’ll settle for a full report later. Thinking of you.

A warm feeling spreads through my chest as I type a reply.

Thanks for the vote of confidence. I’ll call you after it’s over. How’s San Jose?

Foggy. Missing you. The hotel bed is empty without you.

I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling.

Smooth, Carter. Very smooth. We’ve only shared a bed once.

A man can dream. And I do. Frequently. In vivid detail.

Focus on hockey, not hypothetical sleeping arrangements. Talk later.

Yes, ma’am. Knock ‘em dead, Waltman.

I put my phone away, still smiling. It’s nice, this easy banter, the knowledge that someone is thinking of me. It makes Seattle seem suddenly further away.

The panel goes exceptionally well. As the moderator, my job is to introduce the experts, guide the discussion, and manage audience participation while keeping to schedule. When it ends, several attendees approach with questions and compliments. Catherine Porter is among them, giving me an approving nod. By the time I’ve spoken with everyone, my afternoon session is about to begin.

Panel went great. Rushing to next session. Proper update later.

The technical editing world isn’t ready for Elliot Waltman. Go show them how semicolons are really done.

I laugh, earning curious glances from other attendees. He’s ridiculous and charming and somehow always knows exactly what to say to make me smile.

Maybe that’s why I don’t notice him at first—the man standing near the service entrance, watching as I exit my final session. It’s only when I’m halfway across the lobby that I register the familiar posture, the calculated stance designed to appear casual while blocking the exit path.

Jason.

My steps falter, stomach dropping. He’s alone, dressed in his “casual business” attire—dark jeans, crisp button-down, expensive watch glinting under the lobby lights. The outfit he wears when he wants to intimidate without appearing to try.

For a moment I consider turning around, finding another exit. But that would mean letting him control my movements. I’ve spent three years reclaiming my agency. I won’t surrender it now.

I straighten my shoulders, tighten my grip on my conference bag, and continue forward.

“Elliot.” He steps into my path, voice pitched to sound pleasant. “What a coincidence.”

“Not a coincidence at all,” I reply, keeping my tone neutral. “You texted that you’d be here. Remember?”

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Just being friendly. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”

“What do you want, Jason?” I try to step around him, but he shifts subtly, blocking my way. It’s a move I remember well from our marriage—how he could trap me in conversations while appearing reasonable to observers.

“Just a chat.” He glances around the busy lobby. “Somewhere more private.”

“I don’t think so. Whatever you have to say, you can say it here.”

His expression hardens slightly. “Always so difficult. Fine.” He moves closer, invading my space. “I wanted to congratulate you on your new boyfriend. The defender with the anger management issues.”

“Brody is none of your business,” I say firmly. “Neither am I.”

I attempt to walk away, but his hand clamps around my upper arm, spinning me back with enough force that my bag slides off my shoulder. Before I can react, he’s maneuvered me toward a recessed area, his body blocking me from the main lobby’s view. His grip is painful, fingers digging into my flesh through my blazer.

“Let go of me,” I hiss, trying to keep my voice low while looking desperately over his shoulder for anyone who might notice.

He backs me against the wall, releasing my arm but placing his palm flat beside my head, caging me in. “You made it my business when you showed up to my game wearing his jersey. When you paraded around like some trophy he’d won from me.”

“I didn’t?—”

“Don’t fucking speak.” His voice drops, the pleasant mask gone. “I’ve spent the last month being a laughingstock because my ex-wife is fucking the guy who beat me bloody on national television. You have any idea what that does to my reputation? To my standing in the league?”

I force myself to meet his gaze. “Maybe you should have thought of that before you provoked him.”

His face twists with rage. Instead of hitting me, he leans closer, his cheek almost brushing mine as he speaks directly into my ear.

“Did you know Carter has a suspension history? Three games last season for a high hit. Two the year before for instigating a fight.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Everything.” He pulls back, his expression cold. “Because I’ve got friends on the disciplinary committee. The same people who review game footage, who determine suspensions, who decide whether a hit was accidental or deliberate.”

My stomach drops as I begin to understand.

“Carter plays on the edge. One bad hit away from a serious suspension.” He smiles, the expression chilling. “And I can make sure that hit comes with consequences he can’t imagine.”

“You can’t just manufacture penalties.”

“Can’t I? You’d be surprised what a different camera angle can do, what slowing down footage can suggest about intent.” He checks his watch. “A career-ending suspension isn’t hard to arrange. Not with his history, not with the right people reviewing the footage.”

“You’re bluffing,” I say, but the fear in my voice betrays me.

“Remember Davis Mitchell? The enforcer from Vancouver? Career over at thirty-two after that ‘reckless’ hit?” His smile widens. “Funny how the replay angles made it look worse than it was. Almost like someone wanted to make an example of him.”

My blood runs cold. Mitchell had been suspended indefinitely after a controversial hit. I’d never made the connection to Jason before, but it made a sickening kind of sense.

“That was you?”

“Let’s just say I helped the disciplinary committee see things from the right perspective.” He shrugs. “Mitchell crossed me. Said things about my defensive skills to a reporter. Made me look bad.”

“And you ruined his career over it?”

“Actions have consequences, Elliot. Something your boyfriend is about to learn.”

“Why are you doing this?” I fight to keep my voice steady.

“Because no one makes a fool of me and walks away from it. He crossed a line, and now I’m crossing one back.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then I make sure his next questionable hit is his last. Trust me, there will be a next one—all I have to do is wait. He plays on the edge, all it takes is one mistake that I can make sure gets interpreted in the worst possible way.” He steps back. “Of course, if he knew the danger, he might be more careful. But that would require someone warning him, wouldn’t it?”

The implied threat is clear—don’t tell Brody about this conversation.

“This is harassment.”

“This is friendly advice.” He finally steps back. “Break it off with Carter. Clean, quick, no drama. Tell him it’s the age difference, the bad timing, whatever story works. Just end it.”

“And if I don’t?”

His expression shifts to something colder. “Then I’ll make sure he regrets ever looking at you. I have sixteen years in this league. Connections, influence, respect. He has what? A journeyman career bouncing between teams? No one would question when he suddenly can’t catch a break. When the suspensions start adding up. When the trade rumors begin.”

“You’re pathetic,” I say, but the words lack conviction as fear coils in my stomach. Because I know Jason doesn’t make empty threats.

“Maybe.” He checks his watch. “Think about it, Elliot. Is he really worth risking his entire career? Every day you’re together, you’re putting a target on his back.”

With that, he steps aside, the mock-courtesy of a clear path. “Enjoy the rest of your conference.”

I walk past him on unsteady legs, fighting the urge to look back. Only when I reach the elevators, doors closing behind me, do I sag against the wall, hands trembling as I punch the button for my floor.

In my room, I lock and chain the door, then drag a chair in front of it. Paranoid, perhaps, but Jason has a way of making paranoia feel like prudence.

I sink onto the edge of the bed, mind racing. He can’t really ruin Brody’s career... can he? But I know the answer. Jason’s influence in hockey circles is real. His web of connections, favors owed, information gathered—it’s how he’s always operated.

And Brody is vulnerable. Already on thin ice after the fight, already being watched more closely by officials. It wouldn’t take much to turn routine penalties into a pattern of “problematic behavior.”

My phone buzzes with a text from Brody.

Just finished pregame warm-up. Still hoping for that call if you’re free later tonight? Miss your voice.

I stare at the message, heart constricting. What do I say? How do I respond knowing that every interaction puts him at greater risk?

A knock at the door startles me. For one panicked moment, I think it’s Jason.

“Room service,” calls a female voice.

“I didn’t order anything.”

“Complimentary, ma’am. From management for conference speakers.”

I check through the peephole to confirm it’s a hotel employee. I remove the chair, unlock the door, but keep the chain engaged, opening it just enough to take the tray.

I set it on the desk without examining its contents, too shaken to have any appetite. Instead, I return to the bed, Brody’s text still unanswered on my phone.

Catherine Porter’s business card comes to mind. A job in Seattle. A clean break, a fresh start, a way to remove myself from the equation entirely.

I pull out the card, turning it over in my hands. Nexium Technologies. Away from Jason, away from hockey, away from the mess I’ve inadvertently dragged Brody into.

Before I can overthink it, I dial the number.

“Catherine Porter.”

“Catherine, it’s Elliot Waltman,” I say, surprised by how steady my voice sounds. “I’ve been thinking about that position we discussed. I’d like to learn more, if the offer still stands.”

“Absolutely!” Her enthusiasm is clear. “Are you free for breakfast tomorrow? We could discuss details before my flight.”

“Breakfast works.” I agree to a time and place, then end the call, feeling both resolute and sick.

My phone buzzes again. Brody, still waiting for a response.

Elliot? Everything okay? You’ve been quiet today.

I stare at the screen, torn between honesty and protection.

Sorry, long day. Can’t talk tonight - migraine starting. Need to sleep it off.

Not entirely a lie. My head is pounding, though from stress rather than physiology.

No worries. Feel better. I’ll check in tomorrow. Ice pack on the back of your neck sometimes helps.

His thoughtfulness makes my eyes sting with tears. This is a good man who doesn’t deserve to be caught in Jason’s web of vindictiveness.

Thanks. Good luck with your game.

I set the phone aside, then force myself to examine the room service tray—a cheese and fruit plate, tea, some chocolates. I leave it untouched, too nauseated to eat.

Instead, I open my laptop and begin researching Seattle—housing costs, neighborhoods, transportation options. If I’m going to do this, I need to be thorough. It’s what I do best—research, planning, controlling what variables I can.

By midnight, I have a plan: If Catherine’s offer is reasonable, I’ll accept it. I’ll return to Phoenix just long enough to pack essentials and put my townhouse on the market. I’ll break things off with Brody in person—he deserves that much—using the distance and career opportunity as my explanation. No need to burden him with Jason’s threats.

It’s the cleanest solution. The one that protects Brody while giving me a fresh start. Everyone wins.

Except my heart, which already aches at the thought of walking away from the first real connection I’ve felt since my divorce. From the man who remembers what books I read, who makes blueberry pancakes on a whim, who looks at me like I’m something precious.

But this isn’t about what I want. It’s about what needs to be done. The responsible choice.

I finally fall into a restless sleep, dreams filled with chase scenes where I can never escape the shadow following me, no matter how many city blocks I put between us.

Morning arrives with gray Seattle light filtering through the curtains. I shower, dress with care in my most professional outfit, and head down to meet Catherine, conference folder containing my resume tucked under my arm.

The restaurant is busy, but Catherine has secured a quiet corner table. She stands to greet me with a firm handshake.

“I took the liberty of ordering coffee,” she says as we sit. “Hope that’s okay.”

“Perfect, thank you.” I take a sip, grateful for the caffeine after my restless night.

For the next thirty minutes, Catherine outlines their technical documentation department, the role they need to fill, and the projects I’d be working on. It’s interesting, challenging work—medical software documentation requiring both technical precision and regulatory compliance.

“Let’s talk compensation,” she says, sliding a paper across the table. “This is our standard package for someone at your experience level. Negotiable, of course.”

I glance at the figure and nearly choke on my coffee. It’s significantly more than I’m making in Phoenix, with better benefits and a generous relocation allowance.

“That’s... very competitive.”

“We value expertise,” Catherine says simply. “Seattle’s cost of living is higher than Phoenix, and we factor that in. We also offer quarterly bonuses based on project completion.”

We discuss more details—start dates, team structure, remote work possibilities. By the time we’ve finished breakfast, I’m seriously considering the offer.

“I don’t expect an answer today,” Catherine says as we prepare to leave. “Take some time to think about it. But I will need to know by the end of next week. We’re looking to fill the position quickly.”

“I understand.” I shake her hand. “Thank you for the opportunity.”

As she walks away, I remain at the table, thinking. The job is perfect—challenging, well-compensated, in a city far from Jason’s influence. A clean break, a fresh start. The responsible choice.

So why does it feel like I’m running away?

My phone buzzes with a text from Brody.

Morning, sunshine. How’s the head? Feeling better?

I stare at his message, a wave of affection and despair washing over me. How do I respond? What do I say to the man I’m planning to leave behind for his own protection?

Better, thanks. How was the game?

We won! Jensen stood on his head in goal, and I had two assists. Coach said it was my best game of the road trip.

That’s great. Congratulations.

You okay? You seem... upset. Did something happen?

Perceptive, even through text messages. Another quality that makes him so different from Jason, who barely noticed my emotional state unless it inconvenienced him.

Just busy with the conference. One more day, then flying home tomorrow evening.

We land around 8. Can I see you when you get back? I’ve missed you like crazy.

My throat tightens, eyes burning with tears. I missed him too. More than I expected, more than makes sense for such a new relationship.

Maybe. Let me see how tired I am after the flight.

No pressure. Just eager to see your face again. These California hotels have a serious shortage of beautiful technical editors.

I have to go. Session starting soon.

Go educate the masses about proper comma usage. Talk later.

I put the phone away, blinking back tears. I have a plan now. A good job offer, a clear path forward. The responsible decision is made. All that remains is execution—returning to Phoenix, breaking things off with Brody, starting fresh in Seattle.

So why does it feel like I’m about to make the biggest mistake of my life?

As I wait for the elevator, I scan the lobby, checking for any sign of Jason. He’s not there, but the paranoia remains. Is this what my life will be like now? Always looking over my shoulder?

Maybe Seattle isn’t far enough. Maybe nowhere is far enough.

The thought ambushes me as the elevator doors close: What if I’m overreacting? What if Jason’s threats are just that—threats, with no real power? What if I’m letting fear drive my decisions, just as I did during my marriage?

I spend the rest of the day going through conference motions—attending sessions, making notes, networking. But my mind is elsewhere, already planning my exit strategy, already rehearsing what I’ll say to Brody.

It will be clean, compassionate but firm. I’ll emphasize the job opportunity, the distance, the impracticality of a long-distance relationship so early in our connection. I won’t mention Jason’s threats—that would only trigger Brody’s protective instincts.

By the time I board my flight back to Phoenix the next evening, I’ve mentally packed my apartment and scripted the breakup conversation a dozen times. The actual goodbye still looms, painful but necessary.

As the plane takes off, I watch Seattle recede beneath the clouds, already anticipating my return. A new city, a new job, a new life free from Jason’s influence and the complicated entanglement with Brody.