Page 132 of Across the Boards

My city. The phrase strikes a discordant note. In six weeks, I haven’t claimed any part of Seattle as mine—not a favorite café, not a regular walking route, not even a preferred grocery store. I’ve existed rather than lived here in Seattle, going through motions without emotional investment.

I lead him to a nearby coffee shop, less crowded than the market but still public enough to discourage a complete emotional breakdown. We settle at a corner table, steaming mugs between us, the awkwardness of our situation finally catching up with the initial shock of reunion.

“Your hand,” I say, nodding at the cast. “Is it broken?”

“Small fracture. Fourth metacarpal. Classic ‘boxer’s break’ according to the doctor.” He flexes his fingers where they emerge from the plaster. “Worth it, though.”

“For hitting Jason? How can that possibly be worth it?”

His expression darkens slightly, jaw tightening. “For defending your honor. For shutting him up when he crossed a line that should never be crossed.”

“What exactly did he say?” I’ve wondered for weeks. Sarah refused to repeat it verbatim, claiming it was too vile. “On the ice, I mean. What could possibly be worth sacrificing your playoff run, risking your career?”

Brody hesitates, studying me carefully. “You sure you want to know? It was... graphic. Vulgar. Deliberately calculated to provoke exactly the reaction it got.”

“I survived being married to Jason for four years. I’m familiar with his particular brand of cruelty.” I meet his gaze steadily. “I’d rather know than imagine.”

He sighs, leaning closer to keep his voice low. “He implied that you two had been... intimate in Seattle during your conference. That when I... when we...” He shakes his head, visibly uncomfortable. “He said something about how every time I kissed you, I was tasting where he’d finished.”

Heat floods my face—not just embarrassment, but a visceral rage at the crudeness, the violation of something that should have been private and meaningful between Brody and me. “That’s disgusting. And completely untrue. I barely spoke to Jason in Seattle, and certainly never?—”

“I know.” He cuts me off gently. “I never believed it for a second. That’s not why I hit him.”

“Then why?”

“Because he was using our relationship—something real and meaningful—as a weapon. Because he knew exactly how to destroy any chance of me maintaining composure.” His uninjured hand clenches around his coffee mug. “Because no one gets to talk about you that way. Not ever. Not even if it costs me everything.”

The raw emotion in his voice—protective, possessive, but without Jason’s toxic controlling edge—creates a warmth in my chest that spreads outward, melting something I hadn’t realized was frozen.

“You broke your hand defending my honor,” I say softly. “That’s simultaneously ridiculous and... touching.”

A small smile quirks the corner of his mouth. “My specialty—the intersection of ridiculous and touching. It’s where I live.”

I take a sip of coffee, trying to gather my thoughts, to process everything he’s told me—about the fight, about moving to Seattle, about love that spans three years and two states.

“Let me get this straight,” I say finally. “You requested a trade to Seattle. You’re moving here permanently. You’ve completely restructured your professional life. Because of me.”

“Yes.” No hesitation, no equivocation.

“And you’re doing this with no expectation that I’ll change my mind about us? No pressure for me to reciprocate or restart our relationship?”

“Correct.” He holds my gaze steadily. “I’d like another chance with you, obviously. But that’s your decision to make, not mine to pressure you into.”

“That’s...” Words fail me, which is ironic for someone who edits them professionally. “Brody, that’s insane. You can’t just uproot your entire life on the off-chance I might change my mind about us.”

“Already did.” He shrugs, the casual gesture belying the enormity of what he’s done. “Seattle’s press release goes out Monday.”

“But what if—” I struggle to articulate the swirling thoughts. “What if this doesn’t work? What if I don’t change my mind? You’ll be stuck in Seattle, a reminder of what didn’t happen?—”

“I’ll still be playing hockey in a beautiful city for a good team that wants me.” He says this simply, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “And maybe, someday, we can be friends. Either way, I’ll be okay, Elliot. I’m not doing this as some elaborate manipulation. I’m doing it because I want to be where you are, in whatever capacity you’ll allow.”

I stare at him, this man who has crossed state lines, restructured his career, broken his hand—all without any guarantee of reciprocation. Who talks about love with the easy certainty of someone stating a simple fact rather than a complex emotional vulnerability.

And suddenly, unexpectedly, I start to laugh.

It bubbles up from somewhere deep, uncontrollable and slightly hysterical. Brody’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but there’s a hint of amusement in his expression too.

“What’s so funny?” he asks.

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