Page 72 of Across the Boards

Somewhere between ‘needs time’ and ‘kind of sees your point.’ Sarah refused to give me details, but she seemed less worried about you ending up murdered in your sleep.

Comforting.

Speaking of comfort, Coach wants us reviewing Miami game tape this afternoon. 5pm at the facility.

I groan aloud. Extra film study is the last thing I want right now, but I also know it’s necessary. Miami’s offensive scheme is tricky, built around creating space for their snipers—especially Jason.

I’ll be there.

Try to look less lovesick by then. The guys are starting to worry your brain’s been permanently damaged.

Tell them to worry about themselves. My brain’s fine.

Your brain hasn’t been fine since you saw Elliot in that red dress last night.

He’s not wrong. I set the phone down and stare at my ceiling, replaying every moment of last night for the hundredth time. The way she looked when she opened her door. The feel of her hand on my arm. Our dance. Her surprising invitation for ‘not-coffee.’

And then the kiss. God, that kiss. Like something out of a movie, perfect and passionate and everything I’d imagined for three years.

Until I ruined it with my badly timed confession.

Three years of thinking about her. Three years of wondering what might have been. It still feels surreal to admit how much that one conversation had affected me.

My teammates in Boston had never understood. They’d nicknamed me “The Monk” after I’d turned down date after date, hook-up after hook-up. “Waiting for my hall pass with Scarlett Johansson,” I’d joke, deflecting the real reason. How could I explain that I was hung up on a woman I’d spoken to a handful of times? A married woman, at that.

We’d chatted briefly a handful of times before the Christmas party. Greetings exchanged at team functions and celebrations.

The first real conversation—the one about books—that’s when everything changed. When Jason had interrupted, drunk and demanding her attention, I’d seen her transform instantly from the animated, insightful woman who’d been passionately discussing Dumas to a quiet, accommodating NHL wife. It had bothered me more than it should have.

I’d been traded to Boston right after playoffs.

Even hearing about their divorce from a distance, I felt guilty for the small spark of hope it had ignited. Then I’d pushed it down, focused on hockey, on building my career. I told myself relationships were complications I couldn’t afford. But truthfully it was that no woman I met since Elliot could compare. To her intelligence, her dark, knowing eyes, the fact that she literally didn’t care that I played hockey.

And then Tommy mentioned she lived here. That she was his wife’s best friend. That she was still single.

I pull myself upright. Wallowing isn’t helping. What I need is a plan. A way to show Elliot that I’m genuine, that my interest in her isn’t some game or conquest. That she can trust me.

First step: give her the space she asked for. No more surprise deliveries, no more texts unless she initiates. Ball in her court.

Second step: figure out how to handle the inevitable confrontation with Jason next week. Because if Elliot decides to give me a chance, the last thing we need is me getting into a brawl with her ex-husband on the ice. She’s had enough hockey drama in her life.

I head to the kitchen, rummaging through my nearly empty refrigerator for something resembling lunch. The pickings are slim and I pull up a delivery app to order something, wondering briefly if I should also order something for Elliot, just in case.

Elliot again, my brain literally doesn’t stop returning to her, wondering what she’s doing right now. Is she still angry? Is she second-guessing the kisses we shared? Is she regretting inviting me in at all?

The uncertainty is killing me. But I meant what I texted her last night, I’m not going anywhere. If she needs time, I’ll give her time. If she needs space, I’ll give her space. If she needs me to grovel on my knees begging forgiveness, I’ll buy knee pads and get to work.

I need to focus on what I can control. Right now, that’s hockey. Preparation for Miami. For facing Jason on the ice without letting personal feelings interfere.

With a sigh, I grab my tablet and settle back on the couch with my lunch delivery, pulling up the most recent Miami games. Might as well get a head start on the film study. As I watch Jason skating—still with that characteristic slight hunch when he’s waiting for a pass, still tapping his stick three times before a faceoff—I try to see him objectively, as an opponent to be neutralized rather than the man who hurt Elliot.

It’s not easy.

Every time he scores (and he scores often, I have to admit), I feel a twist of resentment. Every celebration, every smug grin at the camera, every fist bump with teammates makes me want to reach through the screen and knock that perfect smile off his perfect face.

“Professional,” I remind myself out loud. “Be professional.”

My doorbell rings, startling me so badly I nearly drop the tablet. I pause the video and move to the door, my heart hammering with the possibility that it might be Elliot.

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