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I can’t stop smiling. It’s been three days since our dinner at Marcel’s and our bagel breakfast, and I’m still walking around grinning like an idiot. The guys at practice have noticed—Jensen asked if I’d been hit in the head with a puck, and Tommy keeps shooting me knowing looks—but I don’t care.

She said yes.

Not just to dinner. Not just to dessert. But to the gala. The very hockey-centric, Jason-adjacent charity gala that she’s avoided for three years. With me.

As friends, sure. But I’ve waited years to get this far. I can be patient a little longer.

“Earth to Carter!” Coach’s voice cuts through my thoughts, and I realize with a start that the entire team is staring at me expectantly.

“Sorry, Coach,” I mutter, straightening up from my stretch. “Could you repeat that?”

Coach narrows his eyes. “I said take a lap. Now it’s three laps. Want to go for five?”

“No, sir. Three is plenty.” I push off the ice and start skating, ignoring the heckling from my teammates.

As I round the corner of the rink, I catch sight of the management box where Sarah is setting up display boards for the charity gala. The team owner’s wife is with her, both of them gesturing at something on the table. I slow slightly, wondering if Elliot might be with them, then immediately speed up when Coach blows his whistle.

“Carter! Those are supposed to be conditioning laps, not sightseeing tours!”

“Sorry, Coach!” I call back, pushing harder. Focus, Carter. You have a game tomorrow.

But focusing is proving impossible when all I can think about is Elliot. The way her eyes crinkled when she laughed at dinner. How she looked wrapped in my jacket. The slight hesitation before she said yes to the gala, like she was taking a leap of faith.

“Looking good out there, Carter!” Sarah’s voice carries across the ice as I complete my second lap. She’s standing at the boards now, grinning mischievously. “Very... focused.”

I slow down just enough to retort, “Shouldn’t you be fixing your freezer emergency?”

Her laughter follows me as I accelerate again. Tommy’s wife is dangerous—perceptive, manipulative, and apparently determined to see me and Elliot together. I make a mental note to send her flowers as a thank you.

By the time practice ends, I’m sweaty and exhausted but still riding the high of anticipation. Wednesday’s game day, and after that... well, I might have casually mentioned to Elliot that Manuel’s taco truck is best visited on Thursdays when he gets fresh fish deliveries.

Are you asking me on a taco date, Carter?

Just sharing insider fish taco information. Any action you take with this intelligence is entirely your own decision.

Her reply still makes me grin whenever I think about it.

Coincidentally, I find myself craving fish tacos every Thursday around 6pm. Totally unrelated to your intel, of course.

“You’re doing it again,” Tommy says as we head toward the locker room. “The weird smiling thing.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I lie, shoving him lightly.

“Uh-huh.” He looks thoroughly unconvinced. “Sarah says Elliot’s been acting strange too. Humming while she works. Wearing actual colors instead of her usual black and gray. Clear signs of hockey player contamination.”

“Contamination? Nice, man.”

“Sarah’s word, not mine.” He grins. “I think it’s a good thing. She hasn’t been this... light... since before the divorce.”

Something warm unfurls in my chest at his words. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Tommy’s expression turns serious. “Just don’t mess it up, okay? She’s not like the puck bunnies you usually date.”

“First of all, I haven’t dated a ‘puck bunny’ since my rookie year,” I say, slightly offended. “Second, I know exactly who Elliot is. That’s kind of the whole point.”

Tommy studies me for a moment, then nods. “Good. Because Sarah will literally murder you if you hurt her friend. And then I’ll have to help hide your body, which would really mess with our defensive line.”

“You already said that once. I got it.”

“It’s worth repeating.” He claps me on the shoulder. “Now go shower. You smell like desperation and ice sweat.”

I flip him off good-naturedly and head for the showers, already thinking about the week ahead. Game day, then tacos, then maybe…

* * *

Game days have a superstition-laden routine that most hockey players follow religiously. Mine involves the same breakfast (three eggs, toast, avocado), the same warm-up playlist (heavy on 90s hip hop), and absolutely no talking about the game until I hit the ice.

Today, I add something new: a text to Elliot.

Good luck coffee delivery on your doorstep. Don’t want to disturb your morning, but thought you might need fuel for editing.

I set my phone down and continue tying my shoes, trying not to stare at it like a teenage boy waiting for his crush to text back. I’m twenty-seven, for God’s sake. A professional athlete. I can handle waiting for a?—

My phone buzzes.

Did you seriously leave a latte and a chocolate croissant on my doorstep? Who ARE you?

Just a neighbor with excellent taste in breakfast pastries. And maybe a slight ulterior motive.

Which is?

Game night. Hoping you might watch. Channel 15, 7pm. No pressure.

There’s a long pause before her reply comes through, during which I absolutely do not hold my breath.

I might have it on in the background. For noise.

The most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.

Don’t push your luck, Carter. And thank you for the coffee. It was... thoughtful.

You’re welcome. Have a good day, Elliot.

Good luck tonight. Not that I care about the outcome or anything.

Of course not. That would be ridiculous.

I set my phone down, still grinning. She’ll be watching. Maybe not closely, maybe just “for noise,” but she’ll be watching. It shouldn’t matter—I’ve played in front of thousands of fans, in playoff games, in overtime—but somehow knowing that Elliot might see me score makes tonight’s game feel more important than all of those combined.

“You’re pathetic,” I tell my reflection as I finish getting ready. My reflection just grins back at me, not disagreeing in the slightest.

The day passes in the usual game-day haze—morning skate, team meeting, pre-game meal, nap. By the time I’m getting dressed for the arena, my focus has shifted fully to hockey mode. Tonight we’re playing Vancouver, a team that’s been struggling lately but always gives us trouble.

My phone buzzes one more time as I’m heading out the door with a text from Tommy.

Sarah’s with Elliot watching the game. Just FYI. Don’t do anything embarrassing.

Great. So much for “in the background while I work.” Now I know she’s actually watching, with Sarah no doubt providing color commentary on my every move. No pressure at all.

* * *

The game starts well. We’re up 2-0 after the first period, with Tommy scoring on the power play and Jensen standing on his head to keep Vancouver off the board. I’ve had a few good defensive plays but nothing spectacular.

During the first intermission, Coach reminds us not to get comfortable. “Vancouver’s desperate. They’ll come out hard in the second. Stay focused, stay disciplined.”

He’s right. Vancouver comes out flying, hemming us in our zone for the first five minutes of the period. Jensen makes save after save, but eventually a shot from the point deflects off someone’s stick and finds the back of our net. 2-1.

The momentum shifts. Vancouver’s pressing, their fans getting louder with each rush. We’re on our heels, reacting instead of controlling the play.

Then I see an opportunity—their forward makes a lazy cross-ice pass. I step into the lane, pick off the puck, and suddenly I’m breaking out alone. It’s a two-on-one with Ramirez on my right. The defenseman commits to me, so I slide the puck over to Ramirez who buries it top shelf.

3-1.

The crowd erupts. My teammates pound me with gloves and stick taps as we celebrate the goal. And for one ridiculous moment, I wonder if Elliot saw it. If she’s impressed. If Sarah is telling her right now about the defensive read I made to create the chance.

Focus, Carter. There’s still half a game to play.

The rest of the second period is tight, back-and-forth hockey with neither team giving much ground. When the buzzer sounds, we’re still up 3-1, but Vancouver isn’t going away easily.

Early in the third, disaster strikes. I go to block a shot and the puck catches me on the inside of my ankle, right where there’s a gap in my protective gear. The pain is immediate and intense—like being hit with a hammer. I crumple to the ice but manage to swipe the puck away from the Vancouver forward.

Play continues down the ice while I struggle to my feet. My ankle is screaming, but I grit my teeth and stay in the play. When the whistle finally blows, I limp to the bench, trying not to put weight on my right foot.

“You okay?” Coach asks, his face creased with concern.

“Fine,” I lie. “Just need a minute.”

The team trainer examines my ankle while Coach sends out the next line. “Nothing’s broken,” the trainer concludes. “But that’s going to be a nasty bruise. Want to get some ice on it?”

“After the game,” I insist. We’re up by two with fifteen minutes left. I’m not sitting out.

“Your funeral,” he mutters, taping a quick protective pad over the spot.

Finally, I’m back on the ice, the pain dulled to a persistent throb. Vancouver has pulled within one goal, making it 3-2 with ten minutes remaining. The crowd is tense, the arena electric with nervous energy.

On my next shift, I find myself one-on-one with their star forward breaking in on our goal. I’m favoring my right ankle, and he knows it, trying to exploit the weakness by cutting to that side. But I’ve played through worse pain. I angle him off, force him wide, and poke the puck away clean. No penalty, no shot on goal. Just textbook defense.

The crowd roars its approval. From the corner of my eye, I see people standing and cheering. For a defenseman. In the middle of a play. It’s a good feeling.

We hold on to win 3-2, a solid team effort that keeps us in playoff position. As I’m doing a post-game interview with the team reporter, my phone buzzes in my locker. I finish the interview quickly, showering and changing in record time to check my messages.

That block in the third period looked painful. You okay?

My heart does a stupid little flip. She wasn’t just watching—she was paying attention. Enough to notice a blocked shot and be concerned about it.

Nothing ice and ibuprofen won’t fix. Occupational hazard.

Is it bad that I was more worried about our taco plans tomorrow than your actual well-being?

I laugh out loud, drawing curious looks from teammates still changing nearby.

Not at all. My ankle and I will absolutely be ready for fish tacos at 6pm tomorrow.

Good. That’s good. For the tacos’ sake, of course.

Of course. The tacos will be relieved.

I’m smiling again, can’t help it. Even after a hard-fought game, even with my ankle throbbing, all I can think about is seeing her tomorrow.

“Good game, Carter,” Coach says as I’m leaving the arena. “That block in the third was a game-saver. Ice that ankle tonight.”

“Will do, Coach. Thanks.”

As I limp slightly to my car, I realize I’ve played through pain plenty of times in my career. But this is the first time I’ve been genuinely glad I did, just so I wouldn’t have to cancel plans for fish tacos.

* * *

By Thursday evening, my ankle is swollen but functional, wrapped tightly in a compression bandage hidden under my jeans. The bruise is spectacular—a Rorschach test of purple and blue spreading from ankle to mid-calf—but nothing I haven’t dealt with before.

I stand on Elliot’s doorstep at exactly 5:55pm, trying not to put too much weight on my right foot. When she opens the door, any lingering pain immediately fades to background noise.

She’s wearing jeans and a simple green blouse, her hair loose around her shoulders, and she’s smiling—a real smile that reaches her eyes.

“Wow, you’re actually on time,” she says, checking her watch. “I thought hockey players operated on a different time zone. Hockey Standard Time. Always fifteen minutes late.”

“That’s rock stars,” I correct. “Hockey players are pathologically early. Coach fines us if we’re less than ten minutes early to practice.”

“So I should have expected you at 5:45, is what you’re saying.”

“I restrained myself. For your sake.”

She laughs, grabbing her purse. “How gallant. And the ankle?”

“Functional,” I reply. “Ugly, but functional.”

“Show me.”

“My ankle? Right here on your doorstep? Scandalous, Elliot.”

She rolls her eyes. “Your injury, Carter. I want to make sure you’re not going to collapse on me halfway to the taco truck.”

“I don’t collapse that easily. I’ve been told I’m quite sturdy.”

“By whom? Your mother?”

“Among others.” I wink, pleased by her eye roll. “But seriously, it’s just a bruise. Impressive colors, limited functionality. Like a contemporary art installation.”

“If you say so.” She glances at my car in the driveway. “Are you sure you can drive?”

“Positive. It’s my right ankle, but I’ll use my left for the brake.” At her alarmed expression, I add, “That was a joke. I can drive perfectly fine.”

“In that case, let’s take my car,” she says, producing her keys. “Your giant SUV guzzles gas like it’s getting paid for it.”

“My ‘giant SUV’ is a practical vehicle for a professional athlete who lives in snowy cities half the year.”

“Phoenix gets approximately two snowflakes annually.”

“I’m planning ahead for the apocalyptic climate shift,” I joke. “But fine, we’ll take your sensible adult car.”

Her car turns out to be a sleek Audi sedan, not at all what I expected. She catches my surprised expression as she unlocks it.

“What?” she asks defensively. “Were you expecting a minivan? Or maybe a librarian-approved station wagon?”

“It’s just... sporty,” I admit, sliding into the passenger seat. “And German. I had you pegged as a practical Japanese sedan kind of woman.”

“My practical days ended with the divorce,” she says with a slightly wicked smile. “Jason got the house, I got the ‘midlife crisis’ car.”

“Well played.” I adjust the seat to accommodate my legs. “I approve of your midlife crisis, for the record.”

“I’m thirty-six, not fifty.”

“A preemptive midlife crisis, then. Very efficient.”

She laughs, starting the engine. “I’m full of surprises, Carter.”

“I’m beginning to see that.”

On the drive to Manuel’s, I find myself stealing glances at her profile. There’s something captivating about the way she handles the car—confident, precise, totally in control. It’s sexy as hell.

“You’re staring,” she says without taking her eyes off the road.

“It’s your fault for being worth staring at,” I reply honestly.

She snorts. “Do those lines actually work on anyone?”

“I don’t know,” I say, holding her gaze when she glances over. “Are they working on you?”

“Not even a little bit,” she lies, her slight smile giving her away. “I’m completely immune to hockey player charm.”

“That’s a shame. I’ll have to rely on my non-hockey-related qualities then.”

“Which are?”

“My extensive knowledge of nineteenth-century literature, my ability to identify any Billy Joel song within three notes, and my superior taco-locating skills.”

“Hmm.” She pretends to consider this. “The taco skills might be your strongest asset.”

When we arrive at Manuel’s, the line is already about eight people deep. As we take our place, I catch Elliot scanning the area with a slightly wary expression.

“Problem?” I ask quietly.

“Just... making sure there’s no one I know.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Worried about being seen with me?”

“Not exactly.” She sighs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “More worried about being seen by someone who might tell Jason. He still has... connections in Phoenix.”

The mention of her ex-husband sends a spark of irritation through me. “And seeing you with me would bother him?”

“Seeing me with anyone would bother him,” she says with a bitter edge. “Not because he wants me back, but because he hates the idea of me moving on. Control thing.”

“So what you’re saying is, we should definitely go make out in front of his favorite restaurant next.”

Her eyes widen, then she bursts out laughing. “You’re terrible.”

“I prefer ‘strategically antagonistic.’”

“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” But she’s smiling now, tension broken.

The line moves forward, and I find myself stepping slightly closer to her than strictly necessary. Not touching, just... nearby. Close enough to catch the scent of her perfume.

“What are you getting?” I ask, nodding toward the menu board.

“The fish tacos, obviously. That’s the whole point of this operation.”

“Just checking. Some people panic in the moment and order chicken burritos instead.”

“Who does that?”

“Tommy. Every time. Says he’s going to branch out, then panics and gets the same thing he always gets.”

She laughs. “Sarah’s the same with Chinese food. Swears she’s going to try something new, then always orders kung pao chicken.”

“Food compatibility. Very important in a relationship.”

“Is that why you and Tommy work so well together on the ice? Mutual burrito appreciation?”

“That, and he can’t shoot to save his life, so he has to pass to people who can.”

“Harsh,” she says, laughing. “Does he know you feel that way?”

“It was literally in my toast at his bachelor party. ‘To Tommy, who always knows when to pass the puck because he couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.’”

“You did not.”

“I absolutely did. He still hasn’t forgiven me.”

We reach the front of the line, and Manuel greets me with a wide smile. “Brody Carter! You’re back in Phoenix!”

“Manuel! Good to see you, man.” I shake his hand warmly. “Still making the best fish tacos in the desert?”

“You know it.” His eyes shift to Elliot. “And you brought a beautiful woman! Your taste has improved since last time.”

I wince slightly, aware of how that might sound to Elliot. “Manuel, this is Elliot. My neighbor.”

“Ah, ‘neighbor,’” Manuel says with exaggerated air quotes. “Of course. What can I get for you and your... neighbor?”

Elliot smothers a laugh. “I’ll have three fish tacos with extra mango salsa, please.”

“Three?” I raise an eyebrow. “Ambitious.”

“I’m hungry,” she says with a shrug.

“Make that six total,” I tell Manuel. “And two waters.”

“Coming right up,” Manuel says with a knowing wink.

We settle at one of the picnic tables spread around the parking lot.

“So,” I ask, taking a bite of my second fish taco, “verdict on Manuel’s famous mango salsa?”

“Life-changing, as promised.”

I gesture toward the corner of her mouth, “But messy.” And watch with amusement as she dabs at it with a napkin.

“Hazard of proper taco enjoyment.”

“I disagree.” His voice dropped slightly, eyes never leaving mine. “The salsa on your lip was working for you.”

“Was it now?” Elliot blushes that has nothing to do with the spicy salsa.

“Definitely.” I lean forward slightly. “Makes me wonder how it tastes.”

She nearly choked on her water. “Careful, Carter. That sounded dangerously like a line.”

“Not a line. Just an observation.” I grin at her. “Though if you wanted to give me a taste test, I wouldn’t object.”

“In the middle of a taco truck parking lot? What will people think?” Her humor is a refreshing change from her natural deflection.

“I’m just saying, Manuel makes a mean fish taco, but I bet you taste better.”

“That’s quite an assumption for someone who hasn’t sampled the goods.”

My eyebrows shoot up, I clearly wasn’t expecting her to play along. “An oversight I’d be happy to correct. For scientific comparison purposes, of course.”

“Of course,” she agrees, clearly enjoying herself. “Can’t have incomplete data sets.

“I’d suggest we take this somewhere more private than a taco truck parking lot. Unless exhibitionism is on your bucket list?”

A startled laugh escaped her, breaking the tension without dispelling it. “Tempting, but I’d rather not give Manuel a show with his tacos.”

“Raincheck, then?” Her eyes hold mine and my stomach flips.

“Ask me again after I’ve finished my food,” she counters. “Research shows decision-making improves after adequate fish taco consumption.”

“I’ll make sure you’re fully satisfied,” I promise, the double entendre impossible to miss as I flag Manuel down. “Two more tacos for the lady. She needs to make some important decisions tonight.”

The drive home is comfortable, filled with easy conversation about everything from her current editing project to the most ridiculous hockey superstitions I’ve encountered. As we pull into her driveway, I’m reluctant for the evening to end.

We sit there for a moment, neither making a move to leave. I’m hyperaware of her proximity in the dark car and the way her hands rest lightly on the steering wheel.

“I should let you get inside,” I say finally, though it’s the last thing I want. “Thanks for the ride. And the company.”

“Thanks for the tacos,” she replies. “They live up to the hype.”

“I told you. Thursday fish delivery. Critical information.”

“Very critical,” she agrees, a smile playing at her lips.

I open my door reluctantly, stepping out into the cool evening air. She follows, walking with me to her front step. Under the soft porch light, she looks even more beautiful—her eyes bright, a few strands of hair caught by the breeze.

“Your jacket,” she says, starting to shrug it off.

“Keep it,” I say quickly. “Return it next time.”

“Next time?”

“Yeah.” I meet her eyes. “I was thinking maybe dinner? At my place? I can wow you with my bolognese.”

She studies me for a moment, and I can almost see her weighing the invitation, calculating risks and benefits in that precise way she approaches everything.

“Okay,” she says finally. “But fair warning—I have high pasta standards.”

Relief and excitement course through me. “I welcome the challenge.”

“Good.” She unlocks her door, pausing before stepping inside. “Goodnight, Brody.”

My name. Not Carter. Brody. It sends a stupid little thrill through me.

“Goodnight, Elliot,” I reply, reluctantly backing away from her door.

I wait until she’s safely inside before heading to my own townhome, unable to wipe the grin from my face. Inside, I grab an ice pack for my throbbing ankle and settle on my couch, replaying the evening in my mind.

My phone buzzes with a text.

Your jacket smells like cedar and something else I can’t identify. Very hockey player-esque.

Official NHL cologne. They issue it with our jerseys.

I knew it. Mass-produced manliness.

Absolutely. Comes in three scents: Ice Rink, Playoff Beard, and Eau de Trophy.

Horrifying. Which one are you wearing?

That’s my natural scent. Can’t bottle this kind of authenticity.

Your humility is truly inspiring.

One of my many stellar qualities. Along with taco selection expertise.

Speaking of stellar qualities, are you icing that ankle? I noticed you were still limping.

The fact that she noticed makes my heart do that stupid little flip again.

Yes, Dr. Waltman. Ice pack deployed.

Good. I’d hate for you to be too injured to make this supposedly decent bolognese.

I could make bolognese with two broken ankles and a concussion.

Let’s not test that theory.

Spoilsport.

Realistic adult. Someone has to be the voice of reason.

Is that your official role in our friendship? Voice of reason?

There’s a pause before her next text.

Someone has to balance out your golden retriever enthusiasm.

I laugh out loud at that.

Are you calling me a dog, Waltman?

If the tail-wagging fits...

I’d be offended if it wasn’t so accurate.

At least you’re self-aware.

One of my better qualities. Along with my pasta skills, which you’ll experience soon.

We’ll see. Goodnight, Carter. Ice that ankle.

Yes, ma’am. Sweet dreams, Elliot.

I set my phone down, the smile still firmly in place. Three months ago, I was in Boston, packing up my apartment after an unexpected trade, wondering if coming back to Phoenix was the right move. Now, I can’t imagine being anywhere else.