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brODY

T he quiet after a hockey game is different from any other kind of quiet.

It’s a physical thing—ears still ringing from crowd noise, body humming with spent adrenaline, the sudden absence of skate blades on ice creating a vacuum that seems to pull at your insides. Most nights, that quiet is when I do my best thinking.

Tonight, sitting alone while officials review game footage, the quiet is deafening.

Blood drips from my split knuckles onto the pristine surface below. I flex my fingers, feeling the sting of broken skin, the throb of what might be a fracture in my right hand. Worth it. Absolutely worth it for the satisfaction of feeling Jason Martinez’s face beneath my fist, for the sound of his head hitting the ice, for the momentary silencing of that poisonous mouth.

Coach stands on the bench, arms crossed, expression thunderous. My teammates watch from a distance—some concerned, others oddly impressed. The officials huddle around the replay monitor, determining my fate. Across the ice, Jason sits in the visitors’ penalty box, holding a towel to his bloodied face, Miami’s trainer attending to him.

None of it seems particularly real. Just images flickering at the edges of my consciousness while my mind keeps replaying everything Martinez threw my way.

Carter, your girl’s still got that thing she does with her tongue. Remember to thank me for teaching her that before you came along. Couldn’t resist when she begged for it in Seattle .

And.

That mouth of hers is still good for one thing, and it isn’t all that grammar bullshit. Didn’t take much to get her back where she belongs. On her knees, looking up at me.

Finally, the words that broke my control.

Hey Carter, you know what’s funny? While you were playing in San Jose, I was playing between her legs. How’s it feel knowing every time you kiss her you’re tasting where I finished in Seattle? Always loved how desperate you second-string guys are for my leftovers.

They hit like a physical blow, each syllable a knife twisting in my gut. Time slowed to a crawl, the roar of the crowd fading to white noise.

How fucking dare he take my moments with Elliot and twist them. Everything between us had been raw, profound, sacred. Something I’d never experienced before her. Something I’d never even considered doing until that night, when her pleasure had become more important than anything else.

Three weeks of discipline, of channeling my heartbreak into hockey, of maintaining focus despite his constant targeting—all obliterated in the face of those words.

I’m not sorry. Should be, probably. Professional athletes are supposed to have thicker skin, supposed to let trash talk roll off like water. But some lines can’t be crossed. Some things can’t be forgiven.

The officials skate over, decision made. Game misconduct for both of us. Automatic suspension pending league review. I’m escorted down the tunnel while the crowd’s reaction washes over me in waves—boos for Jason, cheers for me, the general bloodlust of twenty thousand people who came for hockey and got a gladiatorial spectacle instead.

The locker room is empty when I arrive, the rest of the team still on the ice with five minutes left in a tied playoff game. The silence grows heavier, broken only by the methodical movements of the trainer examining my hand.

“Might be broken,” he says, probing my swollen knuckles. “Need X-rays to be sure.”

I nod, barely registering the pain. Physical discomfort is nothing compared to the hollow ache that’s been my constant companion since Elliot left for Seattle. Since she chose fear over us. Since she walked away from something that had barely begun but already felt more significant than anything I’d experienced before.

The locker room door bangs open, Coach entering with the fury of a brewing storm.

“What the hell was that?” he demands, voice deadly quiet. “After all our discussions about discipline. After all your promises to keep it professional.”

“He crossed a line,” I say simply.

“There are no lines in playoff hockey! Just points on the scoreboard!” Coach paces in front of me. “Whatever Martinez said, whatever bullshit he was spewing, you cost your team by taking the bait.”

I meet his gaze steadily. “Some things matter more than hockey.”

Coach stops pacing, studying me with narrowed eyes. “Elliot Waltman matters more? Is that it?”

“Yes.” No hesitation. No qualification.

He sighs, anger deflating into something more like exhaustion. “You’re looking at a suspension, Carter. Probably multiple games. Possibly the rest of the series depending on how the disciplinary committee feels.”

“I know.”

“And that doesn’t bother you? The fact that you’ve potentially cost us our playoff run because you couldn’t control your temper?”

It should bother me. Hockey has been the center of my life for as long as I can remember. The thing that defined me, shaped me, gave purpose to my days.

But in the weeks without Elliot—without her sharp wit, her careful smile, the quiet intensity she brings to everything—has clarified something I’d been slow to recognize: hockey isn’t enough anymore. Maybe it never was.

“I’m sorry I let the team down,” I say finally. “But I’m not sorry I hit him.”

Coach studies me for a long moment, then drops onto the bench beside me. “What did he say? Must have been pretty bad to make you snap like that.”

“It was about Elliot.” I flex my injured hand, focusing on the physical pain rather than the memory. “Vulgar. Explicit. Claiming she’d... been with him in Seattle.”

“Which you know isn’t true.”

“Of course it isn’t true.” The very suggestion is absurd. “But he knew exactly where to hit to cause maximum damage. He’s been working on it all series—little comments, insinuations, trying to get under my skin. Tonight he finally found the right button to push.”

Coach is quiet for a moment, processing. “Martinez has always been a piece of work. Even when he played for us, he was...” He trails off, shaking his head. “But that doesn’t change the situation. The league will make an example of both of you. Playoff suspensions carry extra weight.”

“I understand.”

The rest of the team filters in as the second period ends, a mix of concerned questions and supportive gestures. Tommy drops onto the bench beside me while the others head back to the ice for the third period.

“X-rays after the game,” he says, nodding at my hand. “I’m driving you.”

“Thanks.” I lean back, suddenly exhausted. “How bad did it look from the bench?”

“The fight? Brutal. Effective. You caught him clean with that first punch.” Tommy’s expression turns serious. “But everyone could see he was gunning for you all night. Even the officials were commenting on it between plays.”

“Not exactly subtle, was he?”

“Never has been.” Tommy hesitates. “Listen, I know this doesn’t help right now, but the guys are behind you. Even Coach, though he’d never admit it. Martinez crossed a line bringing Elliot into it.”

I shower and change while the game continues. By the time the final buzzer sounds, I’m dressed in street clothes, hand wrapped in a temporary bandage, waiting for whatever comes next.

What comes next is a media storm. Reporters clamoring for comments on the fight. Teammates fielding questions about team dynamics. Coach issuing terse statements about “awaiting league review” and “focusing on the next game regardless of personnel.”

The X-rays confirm what the trainer suspected—a small fracture in my fourth metacarpal. The “boxer’s break” they call it. Six weeks in a cast, which effectively ends my season unless the team makes a miraculous run to the finals.

Tommy drives me home, the city lights of Phoenix blurring outside the window as we navigate the post-game traffic.

“Sarah talked to Elliot,” he says after several minutes of silence. “She saw the fight on ESPN. Asked what happened.”

My heart rate picks up despite my best efforts to remain detached. “Is she okay?”

“Shaken up. Angry at Jason.” He glances at me briefly. “Sarah thinks she misses you. Says she’s miserable in Seattle despite the fancy job.”

Hope flares, unwelcome and dangerous. “If she’s so miserable, she knows where to find me.”

“It’s not that simple.” Tommy navigates onto the freeway. “Sarah says she’s scared. That Jason did more damage than you realize.”

“I realize plenty,” I say, more sharply than intended. “I understand exactly how effectively Jason fucked her up mentally. I understand that she ran to Seattle because trusting her own judgment terrifies her after what he did.”

Tommy raises his eyebrows. “For someone who ‘understands’ so much, you’re surprisingly willing to just let her go.”

The comment hits me unexpectedly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re sitting here feeling sorry for yourself instead of actually doing something about it.” Tommy’s directness is uncharacteristic. “You say you love her. You say she’s worth fighting for. But what are you actually doing about it? Besides punching her ex-husband, which, while satisfying, doesn’t actually solve anything.”

I stare at him, momentarily speechless. “What exactly do you suggest? She made her choice. She took the job. She moved to Seattle.”

“So? Since when are first decisions final? Since when does geography determine relationship viability?” He signals for our exit. “You know what I think? I think you’re both using practical problems as excuses to avoid the real issue.”

“Which is?”

“That you’re both terrified of how much you care about each other.” He pulls up in front of my townhouse. “Elliot’s running from happiness because she’s afraid of being hurt again. What’s your excuse?”

The question hangs between us, uncomfortable in its accuracy. What is my excuse? Why have I accepted her decision as final when everything in me screams that it’s wrong?

“I don’t have one,” I admit finally. “Except maybe the fear that she doesn’t feel the same way. That she really is better off without me and all the complications I bring to her life.”

Tommy snorts. “Bullshit. Sarah says she’s miserable.”

“She texted me tonight,” I say, remembering the message that arrived after the game. Simple, understated in typical Elliot fashion.

“And? What did you say back?”

“That it wasn’t over. That I meant what I said in the coffee shop.”

Tommy nods approvingly. “Good start. Now what’s the follow-through?”

I stare out the window at my townhouse—at the empty driveway next door where Elliot’s car used to be. “I don’t know yet.”

“Well, figure it out.” He puts the car in park. “Because the way I see it, you’ve got some unexpected free time coming up. Might as well use it for something more productive than moping around feeling sorry for yourself.”

I exit the car with a grudging “thanks for the ride,” Tommy’s words echoing as I unlock my front door. He’s right, infuriatingly so. I’ve been passive in the face of Elliot’s departure—respecting her decision, giving her space, waiting for her to realize what I already know: that what we had, brief as it was, was worth fighting for.

Inside, my townhouse feels emptier than usual, the silence more pronounced. Nothing has changed physically since Elliot left—same furniture, same half-unpacked boxes in corners, same borrowed coffee mug she left behind sitting on my bookshelf. But the space feels hollow now, an absence more notable than any presence.

My phone buzzes with a text from Jensen.

League disciplinary hearing scheduled for tomorrow morning, 9AM. Coach says wear a suit and look contrite.

Perfect. Just what I need—a formal dressing-down from league officials about “the integrity of the game” and “professional behavior.” As if they’ve never wanted to punch Jason Martinez in his smug face.

I scroll through recent messages, lingering on Elliot’s from earlier tonight. Simple. Restrained. So perfectly her. I reread my response: I meant what I said that day in the coffee shop. This isn’t over, Elliot. Not by a long shot.

Words are easy. Actions matter. But what action can possibly bridge the distance she’s created—not just physically by moving to Seattle, but emotionally by choosing fear over possibility?

Sleep eludes me, mind racing with scenarios, potential paths forward, ways to demonstrate through action rather than words that what we have is worth the risk. By morning, I’ve formulated exactly one concrete plan: survive the disciplinary hearing, then figure out how to get to Seattle.

The hearing goes about as expected—stern faces, video review of the incident, questions about what precipitated the fight. I’m honest without being specific, acknowledging that I lost my composure while emphasizing the context of Martinez’s persistent targeting throughout the game.

“Mr. Carter,” says the committee chairman, “while the video evidence clearly shows Martinez as the instigator of the physical confrontation throughout the game, your response crossed the line of acceptable conduct. However, given the context and your previously clean disciplinary record, the committee has decided on a three-game suspension, effective immediately.”

Three games. Less than expected given the violence of the fight. Martinez receives five games for his role as the aggressor—small consolation but consolation nonetheless.

Coach meets me outside the hearing room. “Three games. Could have been worse.”

“Much worse,” I agree. “Though with this—” I hold up my cast-covered hand, “—I’m effectively done for the season regardless.”

We part ways in the parking lot, but before I can reach my car, General Manager Richards approaches, his usual brisk manner softened slightly with what looks almost like concern.

“Carter,” he calls. “Got a minute?”

“Of course, sir.” I turn to meet him, preparing for additional reprimands about representing the organization.

Instead, he surprises me. “Martinez crossed a line last night. Tommy Harrington filled me in on the context. About Waltman. About what he said on the ice.”

I tense, uncomfortable discussing Elliot with management. “It was a private matter that should have stayed private.”

“Agreed.” Richards nods. “Which is why I wanted to speak with you directly rather than in the hearing. The organization supports you, Carter. Martinez’s behavior was unacceptable on multiple levels.”

This is unexpected—support rather than censure. “Thank you, sir.”

“That said,” he continues, “your contract situation requires discussion. You’re a free agent after this season ends. We’ve been planning to offer an extension, but I sense there might be... complications.”

The opening I didn’t even realize I was looking for presents itself. “Actually, sir, I’ve been meaning to discuss that with you. I’m interested in exploring other options when my contract expires.”

Richards raises an eyebrow. “Other teams?”

“Specifically, Seattle.” The words come out before I’ve fully processed them, but the moment they’re spoken, I know they’re right. “I’d like to request a trade if possible, but if not, I’ll be looking at Seattle as a free agent.”

“Seattle.” His expression shifts to understanding. “Where Elliot Waltman recently relocated.”

“Yes, sir.”

He’s quiet for a moment, considering. “You know, Carter, in my thirty years in hockey management, I’ve learned a few things about what makes players perform at their best. One of those things is happiness off the ice.”

I wait, uncertain where he’s going with this.

“The happiest I’ve seen you play was those few weeks when Waltman was in the picture.” He says this matter-of-factly. “Your performance stats back that up. The team notices these things.”

“I didn’t realize it was so obvious.”

“Professional athletes aren’t known for their emotional subtlety.” A hint of humor breaks through his professional demeanor. “Look, I can’t promise a trade—that depends on Seattle’s interest, cap space, timing. But I can tell you we won’t stand in your way if that’s what you decide is best for your future.”

Relief washes through me—one potential obstacle removed. “I appreciate that, sir.”

“Don’t make any public statements about this yet,” he cautions. “Let’s get through playoffs, handle the suspension, then address contract talks formally. But in the meantime, I’ll have a conversation with Seattle’s GM. Test the waters.”

“Thank you.”

As he walks away, a weight lifts from my shoulders. Not a solution yet, but a path forward. A concrete step toward closing the distance between Elliot and me.

The team meeting that afternoon is predictably somber—a playoff series tied 1-1, key players suspended, the pressure mounting. I sit in the back, cast conspicuous on my hand, listening as Coach outlines adjustments for Game 3 without Martinez or me in the lineup.

Afterward, Tommy corners me in the parking lot.

“You look different,” he observes. “Less like someone kicked your puppy. What changed?”

“I talked to Richards.” I unlock my car. “Asked about the possibility of a trade to Seattle.”

Tommy’s eyebrows shoot up. “Bold move. What did he say?”

“That he’d look into it. That the organization wouldn’t stand in my way.” I shrug, trying to downplay the significance. “It’s just a first step.”

“It’s more than a step—it’s a whole damn staircase.” He grins. “About time you did something besides mope and throw punches.”

“I haven’t even talked to Elliot about it,” I caution. “For all I know, she’d be horrified at the thought of me following her to Seattle.”

“Only one way to find out.” Tommy glances at his watch. “Want to grab dinner? Sarah’s got some work event tonight.”

“Actually,” I say, making a decision, “I need to book a flight.”

“To Seattle?” His grin widens. “Now we’re talking.”

“After the suspension. After our playoff run ends—whether that’s next week or in the finals.” I need to do this right, not impulsively. “I need time to plan. To figure out exactly what I’m going to say. How I’m going to convince her that we’re worth another chance.”

“Romantic gestures? Grand declarations? Rose petals?” Tommy suggests, only half-joking.

“Something more subtle.” I know Elliot—know that flashy gestures would embarrass rather than impress her. “Something that shows I see her. Really see her.”

“Whatever you decide, I’m glad you’re finally doing something.” He claps me on my uninjured shoulder. “Let me know if you need help. Sarah’s got opinions about what would work with Elliot.”

“I bet she does.” I smile, the expression feeling foreign after weeks of forced neutrality. “Thanks, Tommy. For the kick in the ass last night. I needed it.”

“Anytime. That’s what friends are for.”

As I drive home, possibilities unfold in my mind. Not just vague hopes now, but concrete plans. Steps toward Seattle. Toward Elliot. Toward the future I want rather than the one thrust upon me by circumstance and fear.

My phone buzzes with a text as I pull into my driveway. Jensen, sending a link to sports coverage of last night’s fight. The headline reads: “Carter Suspension Less Than Expected; Martinez Bears Brunt of Disciplinary Action.”

The article notes the context—Martinez’s targeting throughout the game, the officials’ acknowledgment of his role as aggressor, the team’s support of my reaction despite its unprofessional nature. A video clip shows various angles of the fight, including the moment before it erupted—Martinez leaning in, saying something that transformed my expression from controlled intensity to unrestrained fury.

It’s surreal seeing myself like this, watching the incident as an outside observer rather than a participant. The disconnect between the composed, professional athlete I’ve always prided myself on being and the man who snapped so completely in the face of Martinez’s taunts.

But I don’t regret it. Not the fight, not the broken hand, not the suspension. Some things demand a response, regardless of consequence. Some lines can’t be crossed without repercussion.

What I do regret is letting Elliot walk away without fighting just as hard for her as I fought against Jason’s disrespect. For accepting her decision as final when everything in me knew it was wrong. For respecting her boundaries to the point of passivity when what she needed was proof that not every man in her life would abandon her when things got difficult.

I’ve given Martinez three solid weeks of living rent-free in my head, of influencing my performance, of affecting my happiness. No more. It’s time to focus on what matters: finding a way to show Elliot that what we have is worth risking vulnerability for. Worth fighting past fear for. Worth building a life around.

The details fall into place over the next few days. The decision to book a flight for the day after our playoff run ends. A conversation with Richards about serious interest from Seattle’s management. A call with my agent about contract possibilities, geographical preferences, career considerations.

The team plays valiantly in my absence but ultimately loses the series to Miami in six games. I watch from the press box, hand throbbing in its cast, heart aching for the disappointment visible on my teammates’ faces.

But as the final buzzer sounds on our season, a different emotion surfaces: anticipation. The end of one chapter, the beginning of another. Tomorrow, I board a plane to Seattle. Tomorrow, I take the first real step toward reclaiming the happiness that slipped through my fingers.

Tommy drives me to the airport, uncharacteristically serious as we navigate morning traffic.

“You sure about this?” he asks as we approach the terminal. “Once you’re there, once you see her—there’s no going back. No pretending you’re okay with how things ended.”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.” And it’s true. The certainty I feel about Elliot, about us, is unlike anything I’ve experienced before—steady, unwavering, bone-deep.

“Good.” He pulls up to the departure curb. “Because Sarah says Elliot’s just as stubborn as you are. She’s not going to make this easy.”

“I don’t want easy,” I say, grabbing my bag from the backseat. “I want Elliot.”

Tommy laughs. “Then go get her, you romantic idiot. And remember—subtlety. The woman edits technical manuals for a living. She appreciates precision, not flashiness.”

“Noted.” I shoulder my bag, confidence building with each step toward the terminal. “Wish me luck.”

“You don’t need luck,” Tommy calls after me. “You need courage. And you’ve got plenty of that.”

I use the flight to Seattle to rehearse what I’ll say, planning how to approach her, considering every possible reaction. But as the plane begins its descent toward a city shrouded in characteristic mist, I realize that no amount of preparation can account for the wild variable that is Elliot Waltman—brilliant, cautious, wounded but undefeated by life’s cruelties.

All I can do is show up. Be honest. Fight for what matters with the same intensity I brought to that moment on the ice when Jason crossed the uncrossable line.

Because some things in life are worth fighting for. Some things demand everything you have to give. Some things—some people—are worth the risk, worth the vulnerability, worth facing the possibility of rejection.

And Elliot Waltman is at the top of that list.

As the plane touches down in Seattle, I check my phone one last time. No messages from Elliot, but a text from Sarah containing the address of Elliot’s corporate apartment and a single line of encouragement.

She’s waiting for someone to prove Jason wrong. Someone who thinks she’s worth fighting for. Be that someone.