Page 22 of Across the Boards

Have you ever tried sourdough bagels?

Is this a philosophical question or a breakfast invitation?

Neither. Research.

There’s a new bakery on 7th that claims to have ‘reinvented the bagel.’ As someone with strong opinions about breakfast carbs, I feel obligated to investigate. Tomorrow, 9am. Unless you have practice.

No practice. Research sounds vital to national security. Should I bring backup?

Just an appetite and your bagel credentials. I’ll drive.

I set down the phone, heart racing like I’ve just completed a marathon sprint. Sarah will be insufferably pleased with me. But more importantly, I’ve just done something my therapist has been urging for months—taken a step forward instead of calculating all the ways things could go wrong.

Maybe it’s time to stop hiding behind my carefully constructed walls. Maybe it’s time to break a few more rules.

4

BRODY

Ican’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.

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