Page 108 of Across the Boards

“I believe you,” I say, and realize with mild surprise that I mean it. “Now, are you staying for dinner, or was this just a quick ‘my ex is threatening us’ update?”

“Is that even a question? Of course I’m staying.” He releases me to open the refrigerator. “What are we working with here? I make a mean pasta primavera.”

“You don’t have to cook again,” I protest, even as he starts pulling out vegetables. “We could order in.”

“I want to,” he says simply. “Cooking relaxes me. Especially when I’m trying not to think about punching Jason Martinez again.”

“If you insist.” I hop onto a barstool to watch him work. “Though I feel I should contribute something to this relationship beyond being the cause of hockey fights.”

“You contribute plenty,” he assures me, beginning to chop an onion with professional precision. “Intelligence, wit, a vocabulary that frequently sends me to the dictionary, and legs that look spectacular no matter what you wear.”

“Objectification doesn’t help your case, Carter.”

“Appreciation,” he corrects with a grin. “And that’s just the surface stuff. The real contribution is how you make me feel—like I’m more than just a hockey player, like what I think matters, like I’m worth getting to know beyond the jersey.”

I’m momentarily speechless, caught off guard by the sincerity beneath his teasing.

“See? She’s stunned by my emotional intelligence,” he says to an imaginary audience. “Years of therapy paying off, folks.”

“You’re in therapy?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“Was, for a couple years after my dad died.” He continues chopping, eyes on the task. “Hockey culture isn’t big on men discussing feelings, but my sister insisted. Best thing I ever did, honestly.”

Another layer revealed, another facet of this man I’m just beginning to know. Every conversation seems to uncover something new—depth where I least expect it, vulnerability beneath the confident exterior.

“My therapist would be very proud of my communication skills right now,” I offer in return. “Showing you the texts instead of overthinking myself into silence.”

“Progress for both of us,” he agrees. “Now, how do you feel about garlic? Because my pasta calls for an almost scandalous amount.”

“The more the better,” I say, settling in to watch him cook. “Vampires beware.”

The evening unfolds in a gentle rhythm—Brody cooking while I set the table, comfortable conversation over delicious food, a shared bottle of wine as we move to the couch afterward. The threats from Jason hover at the edges of our awareness but don’t dominate, don’t poison the time together.

“So,” Brody says as we sit side by side, his arm around my shoulders. “Second official date when we’re both back from our respective trips? I was thinking something special. Maybe that new restaurant downtown?”

“That sounds nice,” I agree, relaxing against him. “Though at this point, I’d be happy with takeout and a movie. It’s the company that matters.”

“Careful, Waltman,” he teases. “That sounds dangerously close to sentimentality.”

“Must be the wine talking,” I deflect, but we both know better.

As the evening winds down, there’s an unspoken question hanging between us—will he stay? Should he stay? We’re officially dating, but the boundaries are still being established, the pace still being set.

In the end, it’s Brody who resolves the tension, standing as the clock approaches eleven. “I should get going. Early practice tomorrow, and you probably have conference prep.”

I walk him to the door, a complex mix of relief and disappointment swirling in my chest. Relief that he’s respecting the pace I need; disappointment that I’m apparently not quite ready to overcome my own hesitations.

“Text me when you land in Seattle?” he asks, pausing in the doorway. “Just so I know you arrived safely.”

“I will,” I promise. “And you do the same for California.”

“Deal.” He leans down to kiss me goodnight, a gentle press of lips that conveys affection without pressure. “Sleep well, Elliot.”

“You too, Brody.”

As the door closes behind him, I lean against it, a small smile playing at my lips despite the day’s complications. There are threats and uncertainties ahead—Jason’s texts, a week apart, the nascent relationship we’re still figuring out. But for perhaps the first time since my divorce, those challenges don’t feel insurmountable.

Because I’m not facing them alone. And the man who stands beside me isn’t Jason—isn’t controlling or calculating or cruel. He’s Brody, with his early morning pancakes and daisies and willingness to step back when I need space.

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