Page 2 of Across the Boards

It was during a brief escape from a tedious conversation about golf handicaps that I found myself wandering down a quieter hallway. A partially open door revealed a study—walls lined with bookshelves, leather furniture, a welcome absence of Christmas decorations or partygoers.

A woman sat curled in a corner of a leather sofa, shoes off, legs tucked beneath her, absorbed in a book. Elliot Waltman-Martinez, Jason’s wife. We’d met briefly earlier in the season.

She looked up, startled, a flash of alarm crossing her face before recognition set in.

“Sorry,” I said, taking a step back. “I was looking for a quiet spot. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“You’re not,” she closed her book but kept a finger between the pages. “Just taking a brief sanity break. You’re welcome to share the quiet.”

I stepped into the room, drawn to the bookshelves. “Impressive collection.”

“Thank you. These are mine. Jason let me have this room for my books when we moved in. It was a non-negotiable condition.”

I scanned the shelves—classics, contemporary fiction, non-fiction, and an entire section dedicated to Russian literature. “Good condition for your marriage.”

That earned a genuine smile. “A woman has to have her priorities. What was your name again? I’m sorry, Jason’s introductions tend to be...”

“Minimal?” I supplied. “Brody Carter. First year with the team.”

“Right, the Boston defenseman. College hockey.” She gestured to the chair opposite her. “Please, sit. I promise not to make you talk about hockey. You probably get enough of that.”

We talked about books—her academic background in literature, my history major with a literature minor. She was reading Pride and Prejudice (“For approximately the twelfth time”) and had strong opinions on the characters. For twenty minutes, I forgot I was a rookie at my captain’s house. I forgot about the pressure to fit in, to impress. Instead, I was just a guy having an actual conversation with a woman who seemed to light up when talking about something she loved.

Then the study door swung open.

“There you are.” Jason Martinez stood in the doorway, annoyance evident in his posture. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. The Marksons want to discuss that charity thing.”

“I was just taking a short break,” Elliot said, spine straightening, book closing. “Lost track of time.”

Martinez’s gaze shifted to me, narrowing. “Carter. Did you get lost?”

“Not lost,” I said, standing. “Just admiring your wife’s book collection. We were discussing literature.”

“Literature,” Martinez repeated flatly. He moved into the room, arm dropping around Elliot’s shoulders as she rose. “Sounds thrilling. But I need to borrow her. Team owner’s wife doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

“Of course,” Elliot said, all trace of the passionate debater gone, replaced by the polished hockey wife. “It was nice talking with you, Mr. Carter.”

“Brody,” I corrected.

“You should rejoin the party,” Martinez said. “Kelly was looking for rookies for some team bonding thing in the game room.”

The dismissal was clear. As they turned to leave, Martinez steered Elliot with that arm still around her shoulders, leaning to say something in her ear that made her posture stiffen. At the door, she glanced back, offering a small, apologetic smile.

For the rest of the evening, I caught only glimpses of Elliot—always at Jason’s side, always maintaining that perfect facade, always somehow separate from the glittering celebration around her. Nothing like the woman I’d briefly encountered in that study.

Five months later, I was traded to Boston. Business, they said. A defensive need on the team, a chance to develop my skills with a different system. But the locker room whispers suggested Martinez hadn’t appreciated finding me alone with his wife at the Christmas party, regardless of how innocent the conversation had been.

* * *

Boston wasgood for me—three solid seasons, consistent play, a leadership role developing among the younger players. Then my agent called with unexpected news.

“Phoenix wants you back,” he said, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Two-year deal, better money than Boston’s offering. Plus a no-trade clause for the first year.”

“Phoenix,” I echoed, the name conjuring memories I’d spent three years trying to compartmentalize.

“Where it all began.” He grinned. “Full circle moment, Carter. They’re serious about rebuilding their blue line, and they want you to be part of it.”

The din of the upscale Boston steakhouse faded as I processed the implications. Phoenix meant familiar ice, potentially former teammates, and memories both professional and personal that I’d deliberately left behind.

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