Page 51 of Across the Boards

“The ankle incident suggests otherwise,” Elliot chimes in, relaxing slightly.

“Oh god, he told you about that?” Jensen looks delighted. “Did he mention he cried in the locker room afterward?”

“I did not cry,” I correct indignantly. “My eyes watered from pain. There’s a difference.”

“He was practically writing poetry about the injustice of shot blocks and ankle bones,” Jensen continues, clearly enjoying himself. “Very dramatic.”

“I’m learning so much about you tonight, Carter,” Elliot says, eyes dancing with amusement.

“All lies,” I insist. “Jensen is still bitter because I scored on him in practice yesterday.”

“Once,” Jensen scoffs. “Out of what, thirty shots?”

“Quality over quantity.”

Jensen laughs, then glances over his shoulder as someone calls his name. “Duty calls. The team owner wants to show me off to some sponsors. Nice meeting you, Elliot. Don’t believe anything Carter tells you about his hockey skills.”

As he walks away, Elliot looks up at me with a small smile. “I like him.”

“Jensen’s one of the good ones,” I agree. “Though if you tell him I said that, I’ll deny it completely.”

“Your secret man-crush is safe with me.”

I’m about to retort when I notice her gaze shift over my shoulder, her expression cooling several degrees. I turn to see what’s caught her attention.

“Hockey wives?” I guess.

“And girlfriends,” she confirms. “The not-so-subtle judgment committee.”

“Want to give them something to really talk about?” I ask, nodding toward the cluster of women watching us with poorly disguised interest. “I could dip you dramatically right here on the dance floor.”

Elliot’s eyes widen, but instead of the immediate refusal I expect, something playful flickers across her expression.

“And scandalize them all in the process?” She leans closer, her voice dropping to a whisper that sends a shiver down my spine. “They think I’m a heartbroken spinster after the divorce.”

“All the more reason to shatter the narrative,” I murmur, allowing my fingers to press more firmly against her. The subtle curve of her waist beneath my palm is intoxicating.

“Careful, Carter,” she warns, but there’s no real resistance in her tone. Her hand slides to my shoulder, fingers grazing the nape of my neck in a way that makes it difficult to remember we’re in a room full of people.

“People might think you’re marking your territory.”

The suggestion sends a pulse of possessive heat through me. “Would that be such a bad thing?”

“Depends.” Her fingers continue their maddening exploration of my hairline. “Are you worth being marked by?”

God, this woman. Every time I think I have her figured out, she surprises me again. The carefully composed technical editor revealing flashes of boldness that leave me breathless.

I draw her marginally closer, “I’ve been told I have excellent... territorial skills.”

“Is that so?” Her eyes dance with challenge. “That claim sounds like all talk.”

“I’m more than happy show action.” I lower my voice, letting my lips brush her ear as I speak. “Though I’m not sure the middle of the gala is the appropriate venue.”

“Scared of causing a scene, hockey boy?”

“Scared of starting something I won’t be able to finish,” I correct, letting my hand skim lower on her back, just shy of inappropriate. “Because once I dip you, Elliot Waltman, you might find yourself thoroughly and completely...” I pause, enjoying the anticipation on her face, “...danced with.”

A laugh escapes her, the sound making my chest tighten with something dangerously close to adoration. “That was terrible.”

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