Page 131 of Across the Boards

And yet...

By ten o’clock, I’ve changed clothes three times, fussed with my hair endlessly, and drafted seven different text responses to Brody’s—none of which I’ve sent. By eleven, I’m pacing my apartment, alternating between nervous anticipation and firm resolution to ignore the invitation entirely.

By eleven-thirty, I’m in an Uber headed downtown, heart hammering against my ribs, palms damp with anxiety, a voice in my head that sounds suspiciously like Sarah’s whispering:About damn time you did something brave.

Pike Place is crowded with the usual mix of tourists and locals, the famous market bustling with activity under unexpectedly blue skies. I navigate through the crowd, overwhelmed by the kaleidoscope of colors from flower stalls, the briny scent of fresh seafood, the cacophony of vendors hawking their wares.

The brass pig—Rachel, according to the plaque on her side—serves as a meeting point and unofficial mascot. I spot it from twenty yards away, gleaming in a rare patch of sunlight.

And there, leaning casually against the railing beside it, is Brody.

He’s wearing jeans and a simple blue button-down that matches his eyes, rolled at the sleeves to accommodate a cast on his right hand—evidence of the fight that still makes my stomach clench when I remember it. His hair is slightly longer than when I left, curling at the edges in a way that makes my fingers itch to brush it back. He hasn’t noticed me yet, attention focused on the market activity before him, expression thoughtful but relaxed.

He looks good. Solid. Real in a way that makes my chest ache with the realization of how much I’ve missed his physical presence.

For a moment, I consider turning around, disappearing into the crowd before he spots me. What can possibly come from this meeting except more pain, more confusion, more impossible choices?

But then he glances up, gaze sweeping the crowd before settling on me with such immediate recognition, such unguarded joy, that my feet carry me forward of their own volition.

“You came,” he says when I reach him, voice warm with something that might be relief. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

“Neither was I,” I admit, fighting the urge to brush my fingers over the wrinkles in his collar, to touch his face, to verify through physical contact that he’s really here. “Why are you in Seattle, Brody?”

“Hockey business,” he says with surprising casualness. “Discussing contract options with the Seattle team.”

This catches me off guard—practical hockey concerns were the last thing I expected. “You’re... thinking of playing for Seattle?”

“Not thinking. Decided.” He shifts slightly, wincing as his cast catches against the railing. “My agent’s finalizing details with management today. Two-year contract, starting next season.”

I blink, certain I’ve misheard. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I’m moving to Seattle,” he says, as casually as someone might announce they’ve switched coffee brands. “Playing for the local team next season. Contract’s basically done.”

My brain short-circuits, unable to process the magnitude of what he’s saying. “You’re—you requested a trade? To Seattle? Because of?—”

“Because of you?” He finishes my unspoken question with a small smile. “Yes and no. Yes, you’re the reason I wanted Seattle specifically. No, it’s not some grand manipulative gesture to force you back into my life.”

“But your career, your team in Phoenix—” I sputter, struggling to comprehend. “You can’t just—that’s—hockey players don’t just?—”

“Actually, we do,” he interrupts gently. “Players request geographical considerations all the time. Teams understand that performance is tied to off-ice happiness.”

“But this is?—”

“A big deal? Yes.” His eyes never leave my face, gauging my reaction. “Life-altering? Absolutely. Worth it? Completely.”

“You barely know me,” I protest, mind still reeling. “We dated for what, a month? And you’re uprooting your entire career, moving to another state?”

“I know enough,” he says with that infuriating Carter certainty. “I know you’re brilliant and kind and funny in that dry way that makes me laugh days later when I finally get the joke. I know you curl your toes when you’re nervous and twist your hair when you’re thinking and get this tiny crease between your eyebrows when something doesn’t make logical sense.”

He steps closer, voice dropping. “And I know I’ve been in love with you since that Christmas party three years ago, Elliot. That’s not going to change whether I’m playing in Phoenix or Seattle or Timbuktu. So yes, I requested a trade. Yes, I’m moving here. Not because I expect it to change your mind about us, but because I’d rather be near you, even if ‘near’ just means the same city, than across the country wondering what might have been.”

I stare at him, speechless, the magnitude of what he’s saying—what he’s done—hitting me like a physical force. No one has ever rearranged their life for me. Not family, not friends, certainly not Jason. No one has ever looked at the equation of their existence and decided I was the variable worth changing everything else to accommodate.

A couple bumps past us, breaking the moment, reminding me we’re having this conversation in one of Seattle’s most crowded tourist attractions.

“Is there somewhere less public we could talk?” I ask, suddenly aware of the curious glances from passersby. Even outside Phoenix, a six-foot-three athlete with movie-star good looks attracts attention.

“Lead the way.” He gestures with his uninjured hand. “It’s your city now.”

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