Page 114 of Across the Boards

We land around 8. Can I see you when you get back? I’ve missed you like crazy.

My throat tightens, eyes burning with tears. I missed him too. More than I expected, more than makes sense for such a new relationship.

Maybe. Let me see how tired I am after the flight.

No pressure. Just eager to see your face again. These California hotels have a serious shortage of beautiful technical editors.

I have to go. Session starting soon.

Go educate the masses about proper comma usage. Talk later.

I put the phone away, blinking back tears. I have a plan now. A good job offer, a clear path forward. The responsible decision is made. All that remains is execution—returning to Phoenix, breaking things off with Brody, starting fresh in Seattle.

So why does it feel like I’m about to make the biggest mistake of my life?

As I wait for the elevator, I scan the lobby, checking for any sign of Jason. He’s not there, but the paranoia remains. Is this what my life will be like now? Always looking over my shoulder?

Maybe Seattle isn’t far enough. Maybe nowhere is far enough.

The thought ambushes me as the elevator doors close: What if I’m overreacting? What if Jason’s threats are just that—threats, with no real power? What if I’m letting fear drive my decisions, just as I did during my marriage?

I spend the rest of the day going through conference motions—attending sessions, making notes, networking. But my mind is elsewhere, already planning my exit strategy, already rehearsing what I’ll say to Brody.

It will be clean, compassionate but firm. I’ll emphasize the job opportunity, the distance, the impracticality of a long-distance relationship so early in our connection. I won’t mention Jason’s threats—that would only trigger Brody’s protective instincts.

By the time I board my flight back to Phoenix the next evening, I’ve mentally packed my apartment and scripted the breakup conversation a dozen times. The actual goodbye still looms, painful but necessary.

As the plane takes off, I watch Seattle recede beneath the clouds, already anticipating my return. A new city, a new job, a new life free from Jason’s influence and the complicated entanglement with Brody.

27

BRODY

Hotel rooms start to blend together after a while. Same bland artwork, same mediocre pillows, same view of parking lots or high-rises. After nearly a decade in the NHL, I’ve developed a routine to make these temporary spaces feel somewhat familiar—unpack immediately, arrange toiletries in the bathroom, put my book on the nightstand.

But this California road trip feels different. Longer. Empty. Not because of the accommodations or the grueling schedule, but because of the Elliot-shaped hole in my daily life.

I toss my phone onto the San Jose hotel bed after reading her latest text—brief, impersonal, distant.

Scored a goal tonight! Coach says my defensive positioning was A+. Did you watch?

Congrats on the goal. Couldn’t watch. Conference dinner ran late.

NotGreat job, Carter!orI’ll need video evidence of this alleged defensive positioning. No gentle teasing, no warmth. Just polite acknowledgment from someone who sounds like she’s responding to a distant acquaintance, not her boyfriend.

Something’s wrong. It’s been building since the middle of her conference—a gradual cooling, responses becoming shorter, less frequent, more formal. At first, I chalked it up to her busy schedule, the exhaustion of networking and presenting. But now, two days later, it feels deliberate. Calculated.

I sit up, wincing slightly as my bruised ribs protest the movement. Last night’s game against the Sharks was physical, but we came out with the win, putting us in good position for playoff seeding. Under normal circumstances, I’d be riding the high of victory, maybe FaceTiming Elliot to share the celebration.

Instead, I’m staring at my phone like it might explain why the woman I’m falling for suddenly feels a thousand miles away, not just the geographic distance between us.

A knock at my door interrupts my brooding.

“Room service,” Tommy calls through the door.

“Didn’t order any,” I call back, not moving from the bed.

“It’s a cultural experience. Open up.”

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