Page 126 of Across the Boards

“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.”

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