Page 4

3

ELLIOT

M arcel’s hasn’t changed. Same starched white tablecloths. Same pretentious lighting that somehow makes everyone look ten years younger. Same leather-bound menus with no prices—because if you have to ask, you clearly shouldn’t be here.

I hate that I notice these things. Hate that I remember which table Jason preferred (the corner booth by the wine cellar). Hate that I know the sommelier’s name is Antoine and that he always wears mismatched socks for luck.

But most of all, I hate that I’m nervous. Not because of the restaurant. Because of the man sitting across from me who keeps looking at me like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve.

“You okay?” Brody asks quietly, his voice pitched low enough that Sarah and Tommy can’t hear from across the table. “We can leave if this is too weird.”

The offer catches me off guard. Jason would never have suggested leaving a restaurant like Marcel’s. Image was everything to him.

“I’m fine,” I say automatically, then pause. “Actually, it is weird. But not in a bad way. Just...”

“Memories?” he supplies, understanding in his eyes.

I nod, oddly relieved that I don’t have to explain. “But new ones can replace old ones, right? Isn’t that what people say?”

“That’s what I’m counting on.” His smile is slow and warm. “So, tell me more about Boston. Tommy mentioned you went to college there before originally playing here?”

“Smooth subject change,” he says with a knowing look, but lets me have it. “Yeah, three seasons in Boston. Beautiful city, terrible traffic, decent food scene.”

“The important things,” I note, smiling despite myself.

“Exactly.” He leans forward, elbows on the table in a way that would have made Jason wince. “I judge cities on three metrics: food quality, bookstore-to-population ratio, and whether strangers say hello on hiking trails.”

“And how does Phoenix rate on the Carter Scale of Urban Livability?”

“Food scene: improving but inconsistent. Bookstore ratio: tragically low. Trail friendliness: surprisingly high for a city this size.” He takes a sip of his wine. “Overall grade: B-plus, trending upward.”

“Trending upward?” I raise an eyebrow. “What’s changed?”

His eyes meet mine over the rim of his glass. “Recent improvements in the neighbor quality.”

I feel heat creep up my neck but refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me blush. “Careful, Carter. Your smooth talk is showing.”

“Nothing smooth about it,” he counters. “Just honest.”

Before I can respond, Sarah leans across the table, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “What are you two whispering about over there? Planning your escape?”

“Just discussing Carter’s scientific analysis of urban livability metrics.”

Tommy snorts. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

“Don’t mind Tommy,” Sarah stage-whispers. “He thinks any conversation that doesn’t involve hockey statistics is suspicious.”

“That’s not true,” Tommy protests. “I also understand conversations about food and Game of Thrones.”

“He’s a man of diverse interests,” Brody agrees solemnly.

“Speaking of diverse interests,” Sarah says with the casual air that immediately puts me on alert, “the charity gala next month is coming together nicely. The hockey wives’ auxiliary just confirmed their donation for the silent auction.”

And there it is. I’ve been waiting for Sarah to bring up the gala since she mentioned it this morning. My best friend has many wonderful qualities but tact isn’t one of them.

“That’s nice,” I say neutrally, studying my menu with sudden fascination.

“It does,” Sarah agrees, not deterred in the slightest. “You know what else looks good? The new cocktail dresses at that boutique on Fifth. We should go shopping before the gala.”

I lower my menu to give her a pointed look. “Sarah.”

“Elliot,” she mimics my tone perfectly.

“I haven’t said I’m going.”

“You haven’t said you’re not going.”

“I’m not going.”

“She says, unconvincingly.” Sarah turns to Brody. “Don’t you think Elliot would enjoy the gala? It’s for literacy programs in underserved communities. Books, Brody. She likes books.”

Brody, to his credit, looks slightly uncomfortable at being dragged into this. “I think Elliot can decide for herself what events she wants to attend.”

I shoot him a grateful look, which he acknowledges with a slight nod.

“Of course she can,” Sarah agrees quickly. “I’m just saying, as her best friend who wants her to have a social life beyond Netflix and technical manuals, that the gala would be fun. Plus, the open bar is top-shelf.”

“You had me at open bar,” Tommy interjects, earning an elbow in the ribs from his wife.

“Not helping, babe.”

The waiter arrives to take our orders, providing a welcome interruption. As Sarah and Tommy argue over the merits of swordfish or sea bass I notice Brody watching me with a thoughtful expression.

“What?” I ask, self-consciously tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just remembering something.”

“Care to share with the class?”

His lips quirk up. “You always ordered risotto at team events.”

The fact that he remembers such a small detail from three years ago catches me off guard. “I did?”

“Mushroom risotto,” he confirms. “You said it was the only thing worth eating at team functions because everything else was ‘hockey player food.’”

I laugh, the memory suddenly crystal clear. “Oh god, I did say that. To be fair, there were a lot of chicken wings at those events.”

“No defense needed. You were right.” His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. “That’s what made you interesting.”

“My controversial opinions on hockey catering?”

“Your honesty,” he corrects. “Most people at those functions were working so hard to fit in. You were just... authentically yourself.”

I search his face for any sign of insincerity but find only genuine appreciation. It strikes me that this might be the first real compliment I’ve received in years that wasn’t about my appearance or what I could do for someone else.

The rest of dinner passes in a blur of good food and surprisingly easy conversation. Brody tells stories of hockey pranks and road trip disasters that actually make me laugh. Tommy shares insider gossip about players I vaguely remember from my hockey wife days. Sarah watches with barely disguised satisfaction as I gradually relax, the tension I’ve been carrying all evening slowly melting away.

“Oh no,” Sarah suddenly exclaims, looking at her phone with alarm. “Tommy, the freezer alarm is going off at home.”

Tommy frowns. “We have a freezer alarm?”

Sarah kicks him under the table, not nearly as subtly as she thinks. “Yes, dear. The one we installed after the Great Power Outage Ice Cream Disaster. Remember?”

“Right,” Tommy says slowly, comprehension dawning. “That freezer alarm. The one that’s... alerting us. About our freezer.”

I narrow my eyes at Sarah. “Since when do you have a smart freezer that sends alerts to your phone?”

“Since always,” she says breezily, already gathering her purse. “Well, not always. Recently. Very recently. The point is, we need to go check on it before all our food spoils.”

“All your food,” I repeat skeptically. “In the freezer that you, a woman who orders takeout five nights a week, absolutely need to rush home to save.”

“I meal prep!” she protests. “Sometimes. Theoretically.”

“Sarah.” I give her my best ‘I know exactly what you’re doing’ look.

“What?” She widens her eyes in exaggerated innocence. “It’s a legitimate freezer emergency!”

“Of course it is.”

“It is!” She stands, pulling Tommy up with her. “We really have to go. But you two should stay! Finish your dinner. Have dessert. It’s still Elliot’s birthday celebration, after all.”

“You’re not fooling anyone,” I accuse her.

“The point is, tiramisu. They have excellent tiramisu here.”

Brody, who has been watching this exchange with barely suppressed amusement, finally chimes in. “I do like tiramisu.”

“See?” Sarah beams at him. “Brody likes tiramisu. It’s settled.”

“Nothing is settled,” I protest, but it’s halfhearted at best.

The truth is, despite my annoyance at Sarah’s transparent matchmaking, I’m not actually upset at the prospect of spending more time with Brody. Which is exactly what she’s counting on, the manipulative genius.

“We’ll get the check on our way out,” Tommy says, already steering his wife toward the exit. “Consider it our birthday gift.”

“That’s very generous,” Brody calls after them.

“Freezer emergency,” I mutter under my breath. “Could she be any more obvious?”

“She could have faked a medical condition,” Brody suggests helpfully. “Or claimed there was a water leak. The freezer at least has plausible deniability.”

“There’s nothing plausible about Sarah Harrington having a fully stocked freezer,” I counter. “The woman considers refrigerated cookie dough a home-cooked meal.”

He laughs, the sound warm and rich. “Fair point. But are you really complaining about dessert opportunities?”

“I’m complaining about being manipulated,” I clarify. “The dessert is collateral benefit.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘no, I’m not leaving before tiramisu,’” he says with a knowing smile.

I should leave. I should absolutely stand up right now, thank him for dinner, and call a ride home. That would be the sensible thing to do. The safe thing.

Instead, I hear myself say, “They do have excellent tiramisu.”

His answering smile could power the entire restaurant. “Then it’s settled.”

The waiter appears to clear our plates and, at Brody’s request, brings the dessert menu. As we consider our options, I become acutely aware that we’re now essentially on a date. No buffer of friends. Just me and Brody Carter, hockey player, bookworm, and apparently, aspiring chef.

“So,” he says, breaking the momentary silence. “Beyond risotto preferences and technical editing, what should I know about Elliot Waltman?”

“Depends on why you’re asking,” I counter, deflecting out of habit.

“Because I want to know you,” he says simply. “The real you, not just the carefully edited version you show the world.”

His directness throws me. “That’s… a lot to ask from someone you’ve known for less than a day.”

“I’ve known you for years,” he corrects gently. “Not well, I admit. But enough to be intrigued.”

“By what?”

“By how someone who can demolish an entire table of hockey wives with literary references also hides behind her coffee mug when she’s nervous. By the way you listen—really listen—when people talk. By how you’ve rebuilt your life after Jason without becoming bitter.”

“Bold of you to assume I’m not bitter,” I say, trying for humor to mask how exposed his words make me feel.

“Cautious, yes. Reserved, definitely. But not bitter.” His eyes hold mine. “There’s a difference.”

The waiter returns to take our dessert order giving me a moment to collect myself.

“Your turn,” I say when we’re alone again. “What should I know about Brody Carter beyond the hockey stats and cooking skills?”

He considers this seriously. “I sleep with the window open even in winter. I’ve read every F. Scott Fitzgerald novel at least twice. I’m terrified of frogs. Not embarrassed—legitimately terrified. Oh, and I can’t whistle to save my life.”

I blink at this random assortment of facts. “Frogs?”

“Their legs, Elliot.” He shudders dramatically. “How do they jump so far with those spindly little legs? It’s unnatural.”

A laugh bubbles up before I can stop it. “You’re six-foot-two and built like a brick wall. How are you afraid of frogs?”

“First of all, thank you for noticing my physique,” he says with a wink that should be annoying but somehow isn’t. “Second, phobias are not rational. That’s literally their defining characteristic.”

“Fair enough,” I concede. “I’m afraid of those wind-up toy monkeys with cymbals.”

“See? You get it.”

“Their dead eyes,” I explain with a mock shiver. “Staring into your soul while they clang those tiny cymbals of doom.”

“This got dark quickly,” he observes with a grin.

“Shared phobias are the foundation of any good relationship,” I quip, then immediately regret my choice of words. “I mean?—”

“I agree completely,” he saves me from my awkwardness. “Nothing brings people together like mutual terror of small amphibians and toy monkeys.”

The desserts arrive, momentarily distracting us both. My tiramisu is perfect—layers of coffee-soaked ladyfingers and mascarpone cream dusted with cocoa. Brody’s chocolate cake oozes molten center when he cuts into it.

“How’s yours?” he asks, watching as I take my first bite.

“Mmm,” is all I can manage, closing my eyes briefly to savor the flavors.

When I open them, he’s watching me with that intense expression again, the one that makes my pulse quicken.

“That good, huh?” His voice is slightly rougher than before.

“Try for yourself,” I offer, surprising myself. I extend my fork with a small bite of tiramisu.

He leans forward, maintaining eye contact as he accepts the bite from my fork. It’s such an intimate gesture that I feel heat rising to my cheeks.

“Delicious,” he says after a moment, still holding my gaze. “But I think it’s the company that makes it special.”

“Smooth,” I murmur, trying to ignore the beat of my pulse.

“Just honest,” he counters, offering me a bite of his chocolate cake in return.

I hesitate only briefly before leaning forward to accept it. The rich, warm chocolate melts on my tongue, decadent and intense.

“Verdict?” he asks, watching me carefully.

“Not bad,” I say with deliberate casualness. “But I still prefer the tiramisu.”

“Noted for future reference.” He grins. “I’ll remember that the next time we have dessert together.”

“Presumptuous of you to assume there will be a next time,” I say, though without any real objection in my tone.

“Hopeful,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”

We finish our desserts in companionable conversation, discussing everything from favorite childhood books to travel disasters to the merits of different coffee brewing methods. It’s surprisingly easy, talking to Brody. He listens attentively, asks thoughtful questions, and doesn’t dominate the conversation the way Jason always did.

By the time we leave Marcel’s, I’ve almost forgotten that this was supposed to be a dinner with friends, not a date. Almost.

The night air is cool and pleasant as we walk to his car. Without thinking, I wrap my arms around myself, warding off the slight chill.

“Here,” Brody says, shrugging out of his jacket and placing it gently around my shoulders before I can protest.

“Thanks,” I murmur, oddly touched by the gesture. The jacket is warm from his body and smells faintly of his cologne—something woodsy and soft.

The drive back to our townhomes is quiet but not uncomfortable. Brody plays soft jazz on the car stereo, occasionally pointing out changes to the neighborhood since he was last in Phoenix.

“That used to be the best taco truck in the city,” he says, gesturing to a new apartment complex. “The owner made these incredible fish tacos with mango salsa. I wonder if he relocated.”

“He did. Corner of 7th and Osborn.”

He turns to me with a delighted expression. “Seriously? Manuel’s still in business?”

“Very much so. Still makes the same mango salsa, too.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard all day,” he declares. “Well, second best.”

“What was the first?”

His eyes find mine briefly before returning to the road. “Finding out you remembered our conversation from that Christmas party.”

I don’t know how to respond to that so I look out the window, watching the city lights blur past. But I can’t help the small smile that tugs at my lips.

When we reach our townhomes, Brody insists on walking me to my door. It’s unnecessary—we’re literally next door to each other—but I find I don’t mind.

“Well,” I say as we reach my front door, “That was...”

“If you say ‘nice,’ I’m going to be very disappointed,” he warns.

“I was going to say ‘surprisingly not terrible.’”

“Another glowing review. I’m on a roll.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

We stand there for a moment, the silence charged with unspoken possibilities. I should go inside. I should thank him again, return his jacket, and close the door. That would be the sensible thing to do.

Instead, I find myself lingering, reluctant for the evening to end.

“Elliot,” he says finally, his voice soft. “Would you consider going to the charity gala with me?”

The question shouldn’t surprise me—we’ve been dancing around it all evening—but somehow it does. “Brody...”

“Just as friends,” he adds quickly. “No pressure. I just... I’d like to have a reason to talk to you in a room full of hockey people.”

I study his face, looking for any sign of insincerity or ulterior motive. But all I see is genuine hope and a surprising vulnerability.

“The hockey world isn’t exactly my favorite place,” I say carefully.

“I know.” He takes a step closer, not crowding but close enough that I have to tilt my head slightly to maintain eye contact. “But maybe it would be different this time. With someone in your corner.”

The implication is clear: he would be different from Jason. He would be in my corner, not parading me around like a trophy or leaving me alone at the first sight of a reporter.

“I haven’t been to a hockey event in three years,” I confess.

“I know that too.” His voice is gentle. “And I understand if it’s too much. But I think you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for.”

His words resonate in a way I wasn’t prepared for. Three years of avoiding anything hockey-related, of rebuilding my life away from that world. Maybe it is time to reclaim some of what I lost. On my terms, this time.

“If I say yes,” I begin cautiously, “it’s just as friends. No expectations.”

Hope lights up his face. “Absolutely. Just friends.”

“And I reserve the right to leave at any time if it gets uncomfortable.”

“Of course.” He nods seriously. “I’ll even create a signal. If you tug your ear, I’ll fake a medical emergency and whisk you away.”

I laugh despite myself. “That won’t be necessary. But I appreciate the commitment to the escape plan.”

“So... is that a yes?” His expression is so hopeful, so earnest, that something in my chest tightens.

I should say no. I really should. But standing here in the soft glow of my porch light, the taste of tiramisu still on my lips, “no” is the furthest thing from my mind.

“Yes,” I say finally. “I’ll go to the gala with you. As friends,” I add firmly.

His smile is warm and bright and full of promise. “As friends,” he agrees, though something in his eyes suggests he’s hoping for more.

And if I’m being completely honest with myself, maybe I am too.

* * *

The morning after my birthday feels different somehow. I wake with a strange, unfamiliar feeling—something almost like anticipation. Coffee in hand, I find myself standing at my window, looking at Brody’s townhouse next door. Last night’s dinner replays in my mind: his casual confidence, the way he listened when I spoke, that crooked smile that appeared whenever he caught me watching him.

It’s... unsettling. Not in the way Jason’s attention had been—demanding, evaluating—but in how it makes me want things I’d carefully locked away after the divorce.

I pull out my phone, scrolling to Sarah’s text from earlier.

So? Are you going to the gala with him or what? Tommy says Brody’s been insufferable at practice, checking his phone every five minutes.

I set down my coffee and do something I haven’t done in three years—make an impulsive decision about a man.

Have you ever tried sourdough bagels?

Is this a philosophical question or a breakfast invitation?

Neither. Research.

There’s a new bakery on 7th that claims to have ‘reinvented the bagel.’ As someone with strong opinions about breakfast carbs, I feel obligated to investigate. Tomorrow, 9am. Unless you have practice.

No practice. Research sounds vital to national security. Should I bring backup?

Just an appetite and your bagel credentials. I’ll drive.

I set down the phone, heart racing like I’ve just completed a marathon sprint. Sarah will be insufferably pleased with me. But more importantly, I’ve just done something my therapist has been urging for months—taken a step forward instead of calculating all the ways things could go wrong.

Maybe it’s time to stop hiding behind my carefully constructed walls. Maybe it’s time to break a few more rules.