Page 36 of Across the Boards

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.”

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