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brODY

I ’ve done some questionable things in my life. Dropped gloves with guys twice my size as a rookie. Played through a hairline fracture in the playoffs. Eaten gas station sushi on a dare.

But standing in my bathroom, wearing nothing but boxer briefs, taking a selfie to send to my neighbor who accidentally sexted me? This might top the list.

“What the hell are you doing, Carter?” I mutter to myself, staring at my reflection. The man in the mirror—hair still damp from the shower, expression caught between embarrassment and determination—looks exactly like what he is: a twenty-seven-year-old professional athlete who’s acting like a teenager with his first crush.

I take the photo anyway.

Send it before I can overthink it more than I already have.

Then drop my phone like it’s suddenly burning hot and pace my bathroom, questioning every life choice that led me to this moment.

Three years. I’ve thought about Elliot Waltman for three years, since that Christmas party where she passionately defended literature while her husband ignored her in favor of chatting up rookies’ girlfriends. Three years of wondering what might have happened if I’d met her first, if circumstances had been different, if I hadn’t been traded to Boston.

And now here I am, living next door to her, sending underwear selfies like some kind of...

My phone chimes. I lunge for it with embarrassing eagerness.

I think I’ll keep it for now, if that’s okay with you. Only fair, since you’ve got mine. Though I’m afraid this means I’ll be thinking about those abs when I’m supposed to be networking at the gala.

Relief and something hotter flood through me. She’s not horrified. Not angry. Maybe even a little...flirty?

Only fair. I’ll be similarly distracted. See you at the gala, Elliot. Looking forward to it more than ever.

Once I hit send, I drop onto the edge of my tub, half-laughing at the absurdity of the situation. This is not how I imagined breaking the ice with Elliot when I signed the lease on the townhouse next to hers. I’d had vague notions of casual neighborly interactions building to friendship, then maybe something more if I was lucky.

Not...whatever this is. Mutual underwear appreciation society?

My phone buzzes with a text from Tommy.

Practice moved to 2pm. Coach has media obligations.

I respond with a thumbs up, then hesitate before asking.

Quick question—on a scale of 1-10, how weird is it to exchange underwear photos with someone you’re not dating?

His reply is immediate.

100. WTF Carter? Who are you sexting??

Not sexting. Long story. Accidentally swapped photos with Elliot.

There’s a long pause, and I can practically see him trying to process this information.

WHAT??????? WHAT??????? WHAT??????

It’s not like that

She meant to send a picture to Sarah and got me by mistake. I sent one back to make her feel less embarrassed. That’s all.

That is NOT all. Sarah just called me SCREAMING about this. Elliot sent her lingerie pics meant for you??

I groan. The Phoenix hockey wives telephone game is already distorting reality.

No. She bought new underwear for the gala. Took a photo to show SARAH. Accidentally sent it to ME. I returned the favor to even the playing field. End of story.

Not even close to the end of the story. Sarah says Elliot rated your pic a 15/10. Also says you have “hockey thighs for days” whatever that means.

Heat creeps up my neck. A 15/10? From reserved, cautious Elliot?

Sarah needs to learn about confidentiality.

Although I’m secretly pleased.

Sarah needs to learn a lot of things. But that’s not the point. The point is you and Elliot are exchanging sexy pics and you haven’t even taken her on a proper date yet. Slow your roll, man.

It wasn’t planned! And we’re going to the gala together, that’s a date.

She agreed to that BEFORE the Great Underwear Exchange. You better step up your game now. Expectations have been raised. Literally.

I’m not taking dating advice from a guy whose idea of romance is ordering heart-shaped pepperoni on pizza.

That was ONE Valentine’s Day when all the restaurants were booked! And Sarah thought it was adorable.

Sarah married you despite your terrible romantic gestures, not because of them.

Uncalled for. But seriously, what’s your plan with Elliot? If you just want a hookup, find someone else. She’s been through enough.

The suggestion that I might just be looking for a casual thing with Elliot makes my jaw clench.

You know me better than that. I’ve been interested in her since that Christmas party three years ago.

Then why didn’t you reach out when she and Jason split?

It’s a fair question, one I’ve asked myself repeatedly.

Didn’t seem right. She needed space to heal, not another hockey player in her life. Besides, I was in Boston. Long distance seemed like adding complication to an already complicated situation.

But when you found out she lived here, you coincidentally found an apartment next door...

Townhouse. And it wasn’t just about her. It was a good opportunity. Being neighbors just made it easier to reconnect.

“Reconnect.” Must be one of those fancy Millennial terms.

We’re the same age, asshole.

Details. So when are you telling her that you specifically chose to live next to her?

I wince, remembering my careful omission when explaining how I’d found my place.

It hasn’t come up.

Translation: you’re afraid she’ll freak out.

Wouldn’t you? “Hey, remember that one conversation we had three years ago? I thought about it so much I moved in next door the second I got the chance.” Totally not stalker behavior.

Fair point. But you need to tell her before someone else does. Hockey world’s too small for secrets.

He’s right, and I know it. The longer I wait, the worse it will seem when she inevitably finds out.

I will. After the gala. One potential disaster at a time.

Speaking of disasters, what are you wearing to this thing? Please tell me not that navy suit from media day.

I have a tux, Thomas. I’m not a complete disaster.

Debatable. Does it fit?

I glance toward my closet where the tux hangs. It’s been a while since I’ve worn it.

Pretty sure.

“Pretty sure” is not reassuring. Try it on now.

Why are you so invested in my formalwear?

Because Sarah will kill me if you show up looking anything less than perfect. She’s got Elliot trying on dresses later today.

That gets my attention.

What kind of dresses?

The kind women wear to fancy events, dumbass. I don’t get daily updates on the specific cuts and fabrics.

Just asking.

Sure you were. For what it’s worth, Sarah’s determined to get her in something other than black. Says Elliot’s been hiding in neutral colors since the divorce.

I try to picture Elliot in something colorful, something that matches the spark I sometimes glimpse behind her careful reserve.

Good. She shouldn’t hide.

Says the guy who couldn’t even tell her he moved next door on purpose.

Low blow, Harrison.

But accurate. Try on your tux, send proof it fits, and then figure out how you’re going to explain to Elliot that you’re basically her secret admirer without sounding like the lead in a Lifetime stalker movie.

Your support is overwhelming.

That’s what friends are for. See you at practice, Lover Boy.

I toss my phone on the bed and head to the closet. The tux is exactly where I left it, still in the garment bag from the last team formal event. I pull it out, praying it still fits. Between the regular strength training and the post-injury rehab on my shoulder, my build has changed slightly since I last wore it.

Ten minutes later, I’m standing in front of my full-length mirror, relieved to find the jacket still buttons comfortably, though it’s a bit snug across the shoulders. The pants fit well enough. The dress shirt is crisp and white. The only problem is the bow tie, which refuses to cooperate with my fingers.

“Come on,” I mutter, attempting the knot for the third time. “It’s not that complicated.”

But it is, apparently. After two more failed attempts, I give up and pull out my phone to search for tutorials.

Twenty minutes and six YouTube videos later, I’ve created something that looks less like a bow tie and more like a small animal died around my neck. I snap a photo of the disaster and send it to Tommy.

Problem.

Is that a bow tie or are you being attacked by fabric?

Very helpful. What do I do?

Clip-on?

Do I look like a five-year-old at a wedding?

Currently you look like someone who lost a fight with a formal necktie, so...yes?

I groan, staring at my reflection again.

This is why I hate formal events.

Ask Elliot to help. She used to tie Jason’s all the time.

The suggestion makes me pause. It’s practical, but also intimate in a way that makes my pulse quicken.

Isn’t that weird? “Hey, would you mind performing this service you used to do for your ex-husband?”

Only weird if you make it weird. It’s just a tie.

But it’s not just a tie. It’s an excuse to be close to her, to have her hands near my collar, my throat. After this morning’s photo exchange, every interaction feels charged with new potential.

I’m unwilling to admit how appealing the idea is.

I change out of the tux carefully, hanging everything back up except the treacherous bow tie, which I leave on my dresser like a challenge to be conquered later. Then I head to the kitchen, suddenly aware I haven’t eaten since my pre-workout protein shake.

As I assemble a sandwich, my mind drifts back to Elliot. To the glimpse of black lace against pale skin. To her playful text responses. To the idea of her in a colorful dress, allowing herself to be noticed again.

The gala is four days away. Four days to figure out how to be around her without looking like a lovesick idiot. Four days to decide if I should tell her the truth about why I moved in next door.

Four days to prepare for what might be my only shot at showing her that not all hockey players are like her ex. That she deserves someone who sees her. Really sees her.

My phone buzzes with a text.

Thanks for being cool about the photo thing. Most guys would have handled that very differently.

Elliot. The fact that she’s still thinking about it, still processing, makes my heart rate kick up.

Most guys are idiots. Besides, I think we’re beyond the point of awkward formality after today’s exchange, don’t you?

Fair point. Though I’m still processing the fact that my neighbor has seen me in my underwear before we’ve even had a proper date.

Is she flirting? It feels like flirting. I take a risk with my response.

If it helps, I’ve been trying very hard not to picture you in said underwear while making lunch. Failing spectacularly, but trying.

There’s a pause that stretches just long enough to make me worry I’ve crossed a line.

At least you’re honest about it. And for the record, the struggle goes both ways. Your photo was...distracting.

A bolt of heat shoots through me. Elliot Waltman just admitted she finds me distracting. Specifically, finds me in underwear distracting.

I’m available for further distraction anytime.

I hit send, then immediately second-guess myself. Too forward? Too presumptuous?

But her response comes quickly.

Careful, Carter. Photo exchanges are one thing. Actual distraction is something else entirely.

Is that a challenge or a warning?

Both. I’m still trying to figure out if getting involved with another hockey player is the worst idea I’ve ever had.

Her honesty catches me off guard. It’s refreshing—so many people in this world play games, hide their real thoughts. But not Elliot. Even when she’s flirting, she’s straightforward about her reservations.

Hockey player is what I do, not who I am.

Jason used to say the same thing.

The comparison stings, but it’s fair.

The difference is, I mean it. And I’m willing to prove it, however long that takes.

Another pause, longer this time. When her response finally comes, it’s both an opening and a boundary.

Let’s start with the gala and see where things go. One step at a time.

I can work with that. Step one: learn how to tie a bow tie. Step two: formal event without embarrassing either of us. Step three: TBD based on success of previous steps

Exactly. Though step one already seems ambitious.

I laugh out loud at that.

Brutal but fair. I’ll practice. Or YouTube more tutorials. Or just show up with it undone and claim it’s a fashion statement.

Do that and Sarah will tackle you in the parking lot to fix it herself. She takes these events VERY seriously.

Noted. Will avoid fashion statements and Sarah’s tackle.

I can almost see her smile as she types.

Smart man. I should get back to work. Some of us don’t have the luxury of mid-day texting breaks.

No luxury about it. Just efficient time management between workouts and underwear pics. But I’ll let you go. Text later?

Probably. Someone needs to check on your bow tie progress.

It’s such a small thing, the promise of texting later, but it leaves me grinning like an idiot as I finish making my lunch. Progress. Slow, careful progress, but progress nonetheless.

My phone buzzes one more time.

And Brody? Thanks again for this morning. For making something embarrassing into something...not embarrassing.

Anytime, Elliot. Though maybe next time we could plan the underwear reveal under more controlled circumstances?

I hold my breath after sending it, knowing I’m pushing the boundaries she’s trying to establish. But her response makes it worth the risk:

Let’s get through the gala first, Carter. Then we can discuss the proper protocols for underwear reveals.

As I set my phone down, I can’t help the surge of anticipation that rushes through me. Four days until the gala. Four days until I escort Elliot back into the hockey world she’s avoided for three years. Four days to figure out how to tell her I’ve wanted this—wanted her—since that first conversation three years ago.

No pressure.