Page 135 of Across the Boards

“And Coach Barrett?”

“Old school but not in a toxic way. Believes in systems, discipline, and occasionally letting his players have personal lives.” He glances over with a smile. “He’s the one who pushed hardest for my trade when Richards called from Phoenix. Said he’d been trying to acquire me for two seasons.”

This is news to me. “Really? You never mentioned that.”

Brody shrugs. “Didn’t seem important compared to my primary reason for wanting Seattle.”

His casual certainty still takes my breath away sometimes—the absolute confidence with which he rearranged his entire life to be near me, without demands or expectations. The way he approached our relationship with patience after my return to his life, letting me set the pace as we rediscovered each other.

The way he looks at me sometimes, like he’s still amazed I’m really here.

We pull up to an impressive home overlooking Lake Washington, lights glowing warmly against the early evening sky. Several cars already line the circular driveway.

“Ready?” Brody asks, cutting the engine.

I take a deep breath, adjusting my dress—a deep green wrap style that Sarah assured me was perfect for a team dinner. “As I’ll ever be.”

A tall man with movie-star looks and an easy smile greets us at the door, balancing a charcuterie board in one hand while extending the other to me.

“You must be Elliot,” he says warmly. “Carter won’t shut up about you. I’m Dex Malone. It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.”

“All good things, I hope,” I say, accepting his handshake.

“The best,” Dex confirms, leading us inside. “Fair warning—the guys are under strict instructions from Coach to not bombard you with questions, which means they’re absolutely dying to ask you everything.”

“They can try,” Brody says, his hand finding the small of my back. “Elliot’s an expert at deflection when she wants to be.”

The house opens into a spacious great room dominated by floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lake. About twenty people mill around—players, coaches, a few significant others. I recognize some faces from the team photos Brody has shown me, others from games I’ve started watching since moving in with him two months ago.

“Carter!” A tall man with sharp cheekbones and an intense gaze approaches. Roman Varga, I assume—the captain Brody has spoken of with respect bordering on reverence. “Glad you made it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” Brody replies, accepting a brief handshake that somehow conveys more than words. “Roman, this is Elliot Waltman. Elliot, Roman Varga, our fearless leader.”

“The famous Elliot,” Roman says, his accent faintly Eastern European. “Our new defenseman plays much better when you attend practices. Perhaps we should put you on payroll.”

I laugh, surprised by the warmth beneath his serious demeanor. “I think the team might object to paying someone to sit in the stands with a book.”

“You underestimate how much management values winning,” Roman replies with a hint of a smile. “Come, let me introduce you to the others before Moretti monopolizes conversation with talk of his grandmother’s recipes.”

As Roman leads us deeper into the gathering, I’m struck by how different this feels from the Phoenix team functions I attended with Jason. There, I was always hyperaware of my role—the supportive wife, neither too outgoing nor too reserved, careful not to say anything that might reflect poorly on him. Here, with Brody’s hand a gentle presence at my back, I’m just... myself.

Luca Moretti proves to be exactly as Brody described—effusive, charming, passionately opinionated about Italian cuisine. Rodriguez, the rookie, is quieter but observant, his youth apparent in the way he watches the veterans for social cues. Coach Barrett is a surprise—I’d expected someone stern and unapproachable, but the man who greets us with a firm handshake and direct gaze has laugh lines around his eyes and asks thoughtful questions about my work in technical documentation.

“Translation is underappreciated,” he says, nodding seriously when I explain my role at Nexium. “Taking complex concepts and making them accessible—that’s a skill. Rather like coaching, in some ways.”

“I’ve never thought of it that way,” I admit, “but you’re right. Identifying the essential information, presenting it in a format the audience can understand and implement.”

“Exactly.” He seems pleased by my understanding. “Carter mentioned you were brilliant. Good to see he wasn’t exaggerating.”

Throughout the evening, Dex Malone seems to be everywhere—refilling drinks, telling animated stories that have groups laughing, charming everyone with an ease that speaks of long practice. But I notice something beneath the polished surface—a restlessness in his eyes, a certain performative quality to his charisma. As if the life of the party is a role he’s perfected rather than his natural state.

During dinner, seated at Roman’s massive dining table, his phone keeps lighting up with notifications he tries to discreetly check.

“PR department still on your case, Malone?” Roman asks dryly, cutting his steak with surgical precision.

Dex’s easy smile falters for just a second. “Just the usual. Nothing to worry about.”

“That’s not what management said in this morning’s email,” Coach Barrett interjects, his tone casual but his gaze sharp. “Seems they’re taking your latest transgression pretty seriously. Space Needle observation deck?”

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