Page 75 of Across the Boards

Jensen drops me back at the complex late in the afternoon. As I walk toward my front door, exhaustion settling into my bones from the double practice sessions, I glance over at Elliot’s townhouse. Her car is still there, but the place looks quiet. No movement visible through the windows.

I force myself to keep walking, to enter my own home without lingering like some lovesick teenager staring at her house. Ball in her court, I remind myself. Give her space.

Inside, I dump my stuff by the laundry room and head straight for the kitchen, suddenly ravenous after the extra skating. I’m assembling ingredients for an omelet when my doorbell rings.

Again, my heart leaps with hope. Again, I try to temper my expectations as I move to answer it.

This time, when I open the door, it’s Elliot standing there.

She looks different from last night—casual in jeans and a simple blue top, hair pulled back in a ponytail, face free of makeup. But she’s just as beautiful, perhaps more so in this unguarded state.

“Hi,” she says, hands tucked into her back pockets. “Got a minute to talk?”

“For you?” I step back to invite her in. “I’ve got all the time in the world.”

15

ELLIOT

Standing on Brody’s doorstep feels like déjà vu in reverse—now I’m the one seeking entrance, feeling awkward and uncertain. When he opens the door, looking exhausted but somehow still unfairly attractive in sweatpants and a faded team t-shirt, my carefully rehearsed speech momentarily evaporates.

There’s something raw in his expression—vulnerability mixed with hope—that makes my chest tighten. I spent the afternoon practicing what I’d say, how I’d maintain emotional distance while we worked through this. Now, faced with the reality of him, those plans seem inadequate.

His townhouse is a mirror image of mine in layout, but the similarities end there. Where my space is carefully decorated—each book, plant, and throw pillow deliberately chosen and placed—his has the sparse, functional feel of someone who just moved in and hasn’t fully committed to staying. A few unpacked boxes sit in corners. The walls are mostly bare, save for a framed hockey jersey and what looks like a child’s drawing on the refrigerator.

“Sorry about the mess,” he says, following my gaze. “I haven’t really had time to settle in properly.”

“It’s fine.” I step further into the living room, noticing the tablet on the coffee table displaying what looks like a paused hockey game. “Was I interrupting something?”

“Just some film study for the Miami game next week.” He gestures toward the kitchen. “I was about to make an omelet. Have you eaten?”

I consider saying yes—maintaining some distance seems wise—but my stomach chooses that moment to growl audibly.

“I’ll take that as a no,” he says with a small smile. “Cheese and vegetable okay? It’s about all I have in the fridge right now.”

“You don’t have to cook for me.” But even as I protest, I follow him into the kitchen.

“I know. But I’m cooking anyway, and making two omelets is just as easy as making one.” He opens the refrigerator, pulling out eggs, bell peppers, and cheese. “Besides, food makes difficult conversations easier. Something about having your hands occupied while you talk.”

There’s wisdom in that, I have to admit. “Alright. Thank you.”

An awkward silence falls as he efficiently chops vegetables and cracks eggs into a bowl. I lean against the counter, watching his movements—confident and practiced, even in this non-hockey environment.

“So,” he says after a moment, eyes on the cutting board. “You wanted to talk.”

“Yes.” I take a deep breath. “First, thank you for the coffee and croissant this morning. That was... thoughtful.”

“You’re welcome.” He glances up briefly. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want to see me today, but I figured everyone deserves decent coffee, regardless of relationship status.”

“About that.” I fiddle with a dishtowel left on the counter. “I’m sorry I reacted so strongly last night. I think I was overwhelmed by everything—the gala, being back in the hockey world, the kissing—and finding out you’d moved here intentionally hit a nerve.”

His hands pause their chopping. “I’m the one who should be apologizing, Elliot. I should have told you from the beginning. It was wrong to keep it from you.”

“Why did you?” The question comes out softer than I intended. Less accusatory, more genuinely curious.

He sighs, resuming his vegetable prep. “Honestly? I was afraid. When Tommy mentioned you lived here, that the unit next to yours was available, it felt like fate or something. But I knew if I showed up saying, ‘Hi, I’m your new neighbor, and by the way, I specifically moved here because of you,’ you’d run the other direction.”

“You’re not wrong,” I admit.

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