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I ’m an idiot. A complete and total idiot who just threw his equipment bag directly at his own feet for the third time this morning. But I have a good excuse—I just touched Elliot Waltman’s hand. The same Elliot Waltman who’s been living in my head rent-free since that Christmas party three years ago.

I rub my shin where the bag hit, limping dramatically even though no one’s around to see it. My townhouse feels half-empty still, boxes stacked in corners from the move back to Phoenix just a month ago. It’s strange being back after four years away—traded first to Boston and now back where my career started.

Some things change. Some don’t. My inability to act normal around Elliot Waltman definitely hasn’t changed.

I was just a rookie the first time I saw her. Twenty-two, fresh out of Boston University, nervous as hell at my first big team event—Jason Martinez’s annual Christmas party. Everyone who was anyone in Phoenix hockey was there, from team ownership to the equipment managers. And there she was, standing in a corner, a glass of champagne untouched in her hand, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else.

I’d noticed her before at team functions. Jason Martinez’s wife. The quiet one who never quite fit with the other wives and girlfriends. While they clustered in groups discussing designer bags and spa weekends, she usually found a quiet corner with a book, or engaged the few team staff with advanced degrees in conversation about something completely unrelated to hockey.

That night, I’d wandered away from the main party, overwhelmed by the noise and the performance of it all—veterans hazing rookies, management evaluating our “character” based on how we handled our alcohol, wives and girlfriends sizing each other up in a complex social hierarchy I couldn’t begin to understand.

I found her later in the study, curled up in a leather chair, reading as if the party wasn’t happening just beyond the door.

“Sorry,” I’d said when she looked up, startled. “Didn’t mean to disturb you.”

She’d studied me for a moment, brown eyes assessing. Then, surprisingly, her expression had softened. “You’re not disturbing me. Just escaping for a bit.”

“Same.” I’d shifted awkwardly, gesturing to her book. “What are you reading?”

“Pride and Prejudice,” she’d replied, a small, defensive note in her voice that suggested she was used to being mocked for her literary tastes. “For approximately the twelfth time.”

“I’ve never read it,” I admitted. “Is it good? For someone to read it twelve times, it must be.”

And that’s when it happened—the transformation that’s still burned into my memory. Her whole face had lit up, the careful mask falling away as she began talking about why this nineteenth-century novel still resonated, how Elizabeth Bennet’s struggle against societal expectations reflected modern women’s experiences.

For thirty minutes, we’d sat there, discussing literature. She’d asked what I was reading (Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo, a fact that had raised her eyebrows with newfound respect), what other classics I’d tackled, why I’d chosen to major in History with a Literature minor when most hockey players barely finished their required courses.

It was the first real conversation I’d had since arriving in Phoenix. Not about hockey stats or team dynamics or which rookie was most likely to be sent down. Just two people talking about books and ideas and the world beyond the rink.

Then Jason had appeared, clearly drunk, a possessive arm sliding around her shoulders and pulling her away to deal with something about a charity function.

The change was immediate and heartbreaking. The light in her eyes dimmed, her posture stiffened, her voice shifted to that carefully modulated tone of someone walking on eggshells. “Of course. I was just chatting with?—”

“Carter,” I’d supplied when Jason didn’t bother to ask. “Brody Carter. Defenseman.”

“Right, right. The college boy from Boston.” Jason had barely glanced at me. “Come on, Elle. You know Markson’s wife hates to be kept waiting.”

As he’d led her away, she’d glanced back, a small apologetic smile that somehow made everything worse.

A few months later, I was traded to Boston. Business of hockey, they said. Phoenix needed offensive power, Boston wanted young defensive talent. Nothing personal.

Except hockey is always personal when you’re the one being moved across the country mid-season.

Boston was good to me. Three solid seasons, growing into my game, finding my voice in the locker room. I kept tabs on Phoenix from a distance—hard not to when you’re facing a team twice a year. I saw Elliot a few times during away games, always at Jason’s side, always with that same careful mask in place.

Then the scandal broke. Jason Martinez, Phoenix’s golden boy, caught in a very public affair with an ice girl. The tabloids had a field day. The divorce was uglier, with rumors of multiple affairs, gaslighting, emotional abuse.

I remembered that Christmas party conversation. The way she’d lit up talking about Elizabeth Bennet’s refusal to marry without respect and affection. The way that light had vanished the moment Jason appeared. It made too much sense.

When Tommy Harrington called me last month after my trade to Phoenix was official, my heart had done something complicated in my chest.

“You know who else is in Phoenix?” Tommy had said casually. “Elliot Waltman. Jason’s ex-wife. She and Sarah became friends during the divorce drama. They’re super close now.”

“Waltman? She went back to her maiden name?”

“Wouldn’t you? Anyway, she lives in that new townhouse development off Camelback. The Pines. Nice place.”

I’d made sure my voice was neutral when I asked, “She doing okay?”

“From what Sarah says, she’s good. Building her editing business, taking care of herself. Still swears off hockey players though,” he’d added with a laugh. “Can’t blame her after Jason.”

Two weeks later, I signed a lease at The Pines. Coincidence, I’d told myself. Convenient location, reasonable price, close to the practice facility. Nothing to do with knowing Elliot Waltman lived there.

I’m a terrible liar, even to myself.

For three weeks, I’ve been playing it cool. Casual waves when we’re both getting mail. Brief, neighborly conversations in the parking lot. I even managed not to stare (too obviously) when I spotted her running one evening, ponytail swinging, determined expression on her face.

And now, after three weeks of carefully orchestrated “accidental” meetings, I’ve finally made it past her front door. Granted, I had to lock myself out half-naked and make a complete idiot of myself, but I’ve never claimed to be subtle.

“Pull it together, Carter,” I mutter to myself as I grab my equipment bag from the floor. “You’ve faced down enforcers twice your size. You can handle dinner with a woman who edits technical manuals.”

My phone buzzes with a text from Tommy.

Hey man, still good for dinner tonight with us and Sarah’s friend? Meet 7pm at Elliot’s place.

I stare at the text, momentarily confused. Hadn’t Sarah already told Elliot about me coming? But then I remember the look that passed between them this morning—Sarah’s guilty expression, Elliot’s suspicion. Of course. Sarah hadn’t told her yet. The dinner was already planned, but my addition was a surprise.

Perfect. Just what Elliot needs—to be ambushed by her best friend with the hockey player next door.

Yeah, I’m in. Already met her this morning actually. I locked myself out after my run and had to go over there.

Smooth. Real smooth.

I never claimed to be smooth.

Just be careful, man. She’s not just some fan. She’s been through a lot with Jason.

If only he knew how much I’d witnessed firsthand. I’d seen how Jason treated her at team events—like an accessory to be shown off but not actually listened to. I’d noticed the way she’d smile that polite, empty smile when he interrupted her or talked over her. The Christmas party had just been the most obvious example.

I know. This isn’t a game to me.

Good. Because Sarah will literally kill you if you hurt her friend. And then I’ll have to help her hide your body, which would really mess with our playoff chances.

I laugh despite myself.

Your concern for the team is touching.

I’m a selfless guy. See you at practice.

I toss my phone onto the kitchen counter and try to focus on getting ready for practice instead of replaying every second of my interaction with Elliot. The way she’d rolled her eyes at my “aerodynamics” comment. How she’d clutched her coffee mug like a shield. The slight softening around her eyes when she’d reluctantly let me in.

I grab my keys, double-checking that I have them this time. As I head for my car, I catch a glimpse of Elliot through her front window. She’s sitting at her desk, typing furiously, a small frown of concentration on her face.

“Tonight,” I promise myself quietly. “Tonight I’ll make her laugh.”

* * *

Practice is brutal. Coach has us running defensive drills for ninety minutes straight, punishing the whole team for our sloppy performance in the last game. I’m sweating through my pads and wondering why I thought coming back to Phoenix in March was a good idea. The prodigal son returns, only to die of heat exhaustion in the desert.

“Carter! Where’s your head at?” Coach’s voice cuts through my thoughts just as a puck whizzes past my ear, missing by inches.

“Sorry, Coach!” I call back, shaking my head to clear it. Focus. I need to focus.

But focusing is proving impossible when all I can think about is dinner tonight and whether Elliot will forgive Sarah for the ambush. I feel a pang of guilt at being part of the surprise. Maybe I should text her, give her a heads up? But that might make it worse, like I’m assuming she wants to know my plans.

“Yo, Earth to Carter!” Tommy skates up, spraying ice as he stops beside me. “Coach is going to bench you if you don’t stop daydreaming.”

“I’m not daydreaming,” I lie. “I’m visualizing my defensive strategy.”

“Right.” Tommy’s expression is knowing. “And does this strategy involve my wife’s best friend?”

“No comment.”

“That’s what I thought.” He taps my shin guard with his stick. “Just promise me you’ll keep it together during practice. I’m not explaining to Sarah why you got concussed the day of your big dinner.”

“It’s not a big dinner,” I say automatically. “Just catching up with old friends.”

“Sure, and I’m just a casual hockey enthusiast.” Tommy rolls his eyes. “Look, I’ve known you since we were rookies together. You’ve got that same look you have before an important game.”

“What look?”

“The ‘I’m terrified but trying to act cool’ look.” He grins. “It’s not a good look on you, by the way.”

“Thanks for the support.”

“Just being honest.” Tommy glances over his shoulder at Coach, who’s looking increasingly impatient. “Sarah thinks you might be good for Elliot. Just... take it slow, okay? She’s been through enough.”

“I know.” I adjust my helmet, suddenly serious. “I’m not playing around here, Tommy.”

He studies me for a moment, then nods. “Good. Now try not to get killed during practice. We’ve got a game tomorrow.”

As he skates away, I take a deep breath and force myself to concentrate. Sixty more minutes of practice, then home to shower and change for dinner. I can do this.

I manage a decent showing for the rest of practice, though Coach still gives me side-eye when we’re wrapping up. I’m grabbing my water bottle when Jensen, our goalie, skates up beside me.

“So,” he says casually, “Tommy says you’ve got a thing for Martinez’s ex.”

I nearly choke on my water. “What?”

Jensen shrugs. “Small locker room. Word travels.”

“There’s no ‘thing,’” I insist, feeling heat rise up my neck that has nothing to do with practice. “We’re neighbors. Having dinner with mutual friends.”

“Uh-huh.” Jensen’s expression is skeptical. “That’s why you’ve been skating around like a lovesick rookie all practice.”

“I have not?—”

“Dude.” He cuts me off with a look. “You literally skated into the boards during the second drill because you were staring into space.”

I had done that, actually. My shoulder still aches from the impact.

“Fine,” I concede. “Maybe I’m a little distracted.”

“A little?” Jensen laughs. “Coach asked if you left your brain at home.”

“I think the exact phrase was something significantly less polite,” I laugh, remembering Coach’s colorful language.

Jensen claps me on the shoulder. “Well, good luck with that. And good for you. Martinez was an ass. She deserves someone better.”

I’m surprised by his support. Jensen usually stays out of personal drama, focused solely on stopping pucks and perfecting his weird pre-game rituals.

“Thanks, man,” I say, truly meaning it.

He nods once, then skates away, leaving me to wonder exactly how obvious my interest in Elliot must be if even stoic Jensen has noticed.

By the time I hit the showers, my nerves have settled into a dull hum of anticipation. This isn’t just dinner. This is my shot to show Elliot I’m not just another hockey player. Not just another Jason.

* * *

I spend an embarrassing amount of time getting ready that evening. I stand in front of my closet deliberating like I’m choosing equipment for Game 7 of the Stanley Cup finals.

Too formal? Too casual? What exactly is the dress code for “dinner with the woman you’ve been thinking about for three years who only knows you as her ex-husband’s former teammate who’s now her neighbor”?

I settle on dark jeans, a navy button-down, and my least flashy watch. Professional but not stuffy. Interested but not desperate.

Who am I kidding? I’m absolutely desperate.

I grab the bottle of wine I’d picked up yesterday—a decent Cabernet that the shop owner assured me was “impressive without being pretentious.” Kind of what I’m going for with my whole persona tonight.

At 6:45, I check my reflection one last time, noting with dismay that my hair is doing that weird thing where it sticks up in the back no matter how much product I use. Well, perfect is overrated anyway. Maybe she likes the slightly rumpled look.

“Just be yourself,” I mutter to my reflection. Then, reconsidering, “Actually, be a slightly better version of yourself. One that doesn’t walk into walls or talk about hockey for two hours straight.”

I hear a car pull up outside—Tommy and Sarah arriving. Through the wall, I catch the murmur of voices, then Sarah’s distinctive laugh. They’re over there, probably warning Elliot about me.

I wait until exactly 7:00 before walking next door and knocking. Punctuality matters. I think. Is 7:00 on the dot too eager? Should I have waited until 7:05? Too late now.

The door opens, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe.

She’s wearing an emerald green dress that makes her eyes look impossible. Her hair is loose, falling in soft waves to her shoulders, and there’s a hint of color on her lips that I immediately want to taste.

“Hi,” I manage, my voice embarrassingly rough.

“Hi yourself.” Her expression is guarded, but there’s something in her eyes I can’t quite read. “You found your way here without breaking anything?”

“Evening’s still young,” I quip, finding my footing. “Plenty of time for property damage.”

She laughs, the sound making my chest tighten, and steps back to let me in. “Sarah and Tommy are already plotting how much wine they can force on me.”

“I brought reinforcements.” I offer the bottle of Cabernet, watching her examine the label with a raised eyebrow.

“Very fancy,” she comments. “Trying to impress someone?”

“Is it working?” I counter, unable to help myself.

“Jury’s still out.” But there’s a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

From the kitchen, Sarah calls out, “Are you two coming in, or should we start without you?”

Elliot rolls her eyes. “She’s been like this all day. I may need to find a new best friend.”

“I heard that!” Sarah appears in the hallway, wine glass already in hand. “And after I sprung this surprise dinner on you to help your social life.”

“My social life was fine,” Elliot protests, but she’s smiling. “Some of us enjoy quiet evenings without unexpected hockey players.”

“Boring evenings, you mean.” Sarah turns her attention to me. “Well, don’t you clean up nicely, Carter.”

“He looks exactly the same as he does at practice,” Tommy interjects, appearing behind his wife. “Just less sweaty.”

“Always the romantic,” Sarah sighs, leaning back against him. “This is why I handle our anniversary plans.”

The easy banter between them makes me sneak a glance at Elliot. She’s watching them with a mixture of affection and something else—a wistfulness, maybe, that makes me want to pull her close and promise her everything.

Instead, I offer my arm. “Shall we join the alcoholics in the kitchen?”

Her eyebrows rise slightly, but after a moment’s hesitation, she places her hand on my arm. “Lead the way.”

Tommy and Sarah are sitting at the counter with an open bottle of wine between them.

“Nice setup,” I comment, gesturing to the coffee station.

“She loves that thing more than she loves me,” Sarah says, pouring wine into glasses. “I’m pretty sure it’s in her will.”

“It should be,” Elliot retorts. “It’s never let me down or committed me to surprise dinner parties.”

“You’ll thank me later,” Sarah says, unrepentant. “That’s what you said about that blind date with the orthodontist,” Elliot points out. “I’m still waiting for the gratitude to kick in.”

“He was perfectly nice!”

“He talked about bicuspids for two hours.”

Tommy hands me a glass of wine. “So, Carter, did you survive practice? Coach seemed especially murderous today.”

“Barely,” I admit, accepting the wine gratefully. “I think he’s still punishing me for that defensive breakdown against Dallas.”

“That wasn’t your fault,” Tommy says loyally. “Jensen was out of position.”

“Don’t let Jensen hear you say that,” I warn. “He’ll put itching powder in your pads again.”

“That was one time!” Tommy protests. “And I apologized.”

“What did you do?” Elliot asks, looking genuinely curious.

Tommy winces. “I might have suggested that his glove side was slower than my grandmother’s internet connection.”

“It was,” I confirm. “But you never tell a goalie that. It’s like hockey rule number one.”

“I thought hockey rule number one was ‘don’t touch another guy’s stick,’” Sarah interjects with a wicked grin.

“Sarah!” Elliot looks scandalized, but she’s fighting a smile.

“What? I’m married to a hockey player. I know things.”

Sarah’s easy comment breaks the tension, much to my relief. We trade stories about Tommy’s rookie mishaps (including the time he accidentally used women’s hair products for a month because he couldn’t read the Swedish labels), Sarah’s event planning disasters (the wedding where the groom’s ex showed up in a wedding dress), and my adventures in Boston.

Through it all, I watch Elliot gradually relax, her laughter coming more freely, her posture less guarded. She’s still careful—I catch the way she monitors her wine intake, the way she redirects questions about herself—but she’s engaging. Present.

“Did you know,” Tommy says, refilling his glass, “that Carter here used to read novels on road trips? The guys in Boston called him ‘Professor.’”

Elliot’s eyes find mine, a flicker of recognition in them. “Really? What kind of novels?”

Is she remembering our conversation from that Christmas party? The way we’d bonded over books while everyone else got wasted around us?

“Classics, mostly,” I admit. “Dumas, Hugo, Dickens. The kind with enough pages to get me through a long flight.”

“Hmm.” Her expression gives nothing away, but I swear there’s something different in her eyes now. “Any new favorites?”

“‘It’s still The Count of Monte Cristo,’” I say without hesitation.

There it is—the flash of memory crossing her face. She does remember.

“You were reading it then, weren’t you?” she says quietly, her eyes never leaving mine. “You asked me about Pride and Prejudice.”

“And you said it was your twelfth time reading it.” I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. “I was impressed.”

“I’m more impressed you remember that,” she counters, something soft and surprised in her expression.

The moment stretches between us, charged with three years of unspoken thoughts. I want to tell her I remember everything about that night—the way she’d tucked her hair behind her ear when she was thinking, how she’d laughed at my terrible impression of my English lit professor, the sadness that had flickered in her eyes when Jason interrupted us.

But Sarah clears her throat, breaking the spell. “Well, this is fascinating and all, but I was promised dinner. Are we eating here or going out?”

Elliot blinks, turning away from me. “I thought we were going to that new place on Central?”

“Change of plans,” Sarah announces with a mischievous smile. “Tommy’s teammate Ramirez got us a table at Marcel’s. Last-minute cancellation.”

Marcel’s. Only the most exclusive restaurant in Phoenix, with a three-month waiting list and prices that make even NHL salaries wince.

“Sarah,” Elliot protests, “I’m not dressed for Marcel’s.”

“Are you kidding?” Sarah gestures to Elliot’s green dress. “You look amazing. Besides, it’s your birthday.”

“That’s not really a reason for Marcel’s,” Elliot counters.

“Of course it is!” Sarah is already gathering her purse. “Come on, it’ll be fun. When’s the last time you got dressed up and went somewhere fancy?”

I watch Elliot hesitate, clearly torn between annoyance at being manipulated and temptation at the offer.

“I’ll make you a deal,” I find myself saying. “If the food isn’t worth the fuss, I’ll take full responsibility and buy you Thai takeout for a week.”

She studies me, clearly weighing her options. “That’s a lot of pad thai.”

“I’m good for it.” I hold her gaze. “Unless you’re scared you might actually enjoy yourself?”

Her eyes narrow at the challenge. “Fine. But I’m ordering extra spring rolls.”

“Deal.” I offer my hand to shake on it, and after a moment’s hesitation, she takes it.

Her palm is warm against mine, fingers slender but strong. I hold on a beat too long before reluctantly letting go.

“Great!” Sarah claps her hands together, looking far too pleased with herself. “We’ll take our car. Tommy needs to discuss, um, party planning stuff with me on the way.”

“Subtle,” Elliot mutters, but she’s already reaching for her clutch. “Give me two minutes to touch up my lipstick.”

As she disappears down the hall, Sarah turns to me with a triumphant expression. “You’re welcome.”

“For what exactly?” I ask, though I have a pretty good idea.

“For giving you an opening.” She lowers her voice. “She hasn’t been to Marcel’s since before the divorce. Jason used to take her there for special occasions.”

My stomach tightens. “And you think reminding her of him is a good idea?”

“I think,” Sarah says surprisingly seriousness, “that it’s time she reclaimed some of the things he took from her. Including nice restaurants. Including hockey.” Her gaze is pointed. “Including trust.”

The weight of that responsibility settles on my shoulders. “I won’t hurt her,” I promise quietly.

“Good.” Sarah’s expression softens. “Because despite her prickly exterior, she’s been hurt enough.”

Elliot returns before I can respond. “Ready,” she announces, though her eyes betray her nervousness.

As we head to the door, I offer her my arm again. “May I escort you to your fancy birthday dinner, Ms. Waltman?”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips. “If you insist, Mr. Carter.”

“Oh, I definitely insist.” I grin as her hand settles in the crook of my arm.

Outside, Sarah and Tommy are already getting into their car, leaving us to follow in mine. As I open the passenger door for Elliot, she pauses, looking up at me with those incredible eyes.

“You didn’t have to agree to this, you know,” she says quietly. “The ambush dinner. Marcel’s. Any of it.”

“I know,” I admit, meeting her gaze steadily. “But I wanted to.”

“Why?” The question is simple but loaded with history—three years of it.

I could play it safe. Make a joke, keep things light. But looking at her in the fading evening light, vulnerability peeking through her carefully constructed walls, I decide on the truth.

“Because I’ve been thinking about our conversation at that Christmas party for three years,” I admit. “And I’d like the chance to finish it.”

Her eyes widen slightly, surprise and something else—hope, maybe?—flickering across her face.

“That was a long time ago,” she says finally.

“Not to me.” I hold her gaze, letting her see my sincerity. “Some conversations are worth waiting for.”

She doesn’t respond, but as she slides into the passenger seat, her hand briefly squeezes mine—a touch so quick I might have imagined it.

As I round the car to the driver’s side, my heart is pounding like I’ve just finished a triple-overtime game. I haven’t even made it through dinner, and already I’m in deeper than I expected.

But watching her through the windshield, her profile outlined against the twilight sky, I know one thing for certain: I’d wait another three years just for the chance to make her smile like she did when we talked about books.