Page 137 of Across the Boards

The conversation shifts to safer topics as dessert is served—training schedules, Rodriguez’s apartment hunt, Luca’s ongoing feud with his neighbor over parking. But I find myself watching Dex with new interest, wondering what’s beneath the carefully constructed charm, what drives someone to seek validation through increasingly risky behavior.

It’s not my puzzle to solve, of course. But Brody has a way of adopting strays—from me with my trust issues to his teammate with his apparent self-destructive streak. I have a feeling Dex Malone might become a regular fixture in our lives, whether he’s seeking redemption or just more trouble.

Later, as we’re saying our goodbyes, Roman pulls Brody aside briefly. I can’t hear their exchange, but Brody’s expression shifts from surprise to something almost like gratitude before they clasp hands with the particular intensity of men communicating something beyond words.

“What was that about?” I ask as we walk to the car.

“Just team stuff,” Brody says, but his smile has a satisfied edge. “Roman was letting me know the team is aware of Jason’s history—not just with you, but with others throughout the league. And that they’re taking steps through official channels.”

The simple statement settles something in me—not vengeance or vindication, but the reassurance that patterns don’t go unnoticed forever, that accountability eventually arrives without my needing to pursue it.

The drive home is quiet, comfortable, my earlier anxiety replaced by a warm contentment that has as much to do with Brody’s steady presence beside me as with the unexpected welcome I received from his new team.

“They liked you,” he says as we enter our apartment—his lease initially, but increasingly ours as my belongings have migrated from my corporate housing over the past two months. “Not that I had any doubts.”

“They’re different than I expected,” I admit, slipping off my heels with a sigh of relief. “Less...”

“Hockey-bro stereotypes?” he supplies with a grin. “Yeah, Seattle’s built a specific culture. It’s one of the reasons I was open to the trade even before you became the primary motivation.”

“Is Dex going to be okay with this skating instructor assignment? He seemed genuinely distressed.”

Brody laughs, “Dex Malone has been skating on thin ice both literally and figuratively since juniors. If anyone needs a reality check, it’s him. Besides, he might surprise himself. The guy’s actually good with people when he’s not trying so hard to be ‘Dex Malone, hockey’s most eligible bachelor.’”

“I got that impression too,” I say thoughtfully. “There’s something underneath all that charm. Something... sad, almost.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Brody warns, pulling me into his arms. “Dex has built his entire identity around being the carefree playboy. Acknowledging depth would ruin his brand.”

“Everyone has depth,” I murmur, leaning into his embrace. “Even walking clichés.”

“Speaking of depth,” Brody says, his voice dropping to that register that still makes my heart race after three months together. “How does yours truly rate after tonight’s team introduction? Pass or fail?”

“Definitely pass,” I say, tilting my face up to his. “Though I’m still not sure how I ended up here—living in Seattle with a hockey player, attending team functions, offering to bring coffee to the resident bad boy’s kid skating class.”

“Life’s funny that way,” Brody says, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Three years ago, I was in Boston wondering if you’d ever escape Jason’s shadow. Then I was in Phoenix pretending I wasn’t moving there partly to see you again. Three months ago, I was signing with Seattle because you’re the most important thing in my life.”

“And now?” I whisper, though I know the answer in the way he looks at me.

“Now I’m the luckiest man in hockey,” he says simply. “Because somehow, through all the twists and wrong turns and false starts, we ended up here. Together.”

“I still think you’re getting the worse end of the deal,” I say, only half-joking. “A divorced, anxiety-prone technical editor with trust issues who reorganizes your ties without permission.”

“Elliot.” He frames my face with his hands, his eyes serious despite his smile. “I would trade every game, every goal, every win just to have you challenge my grammar and make that little sound when I kiss you just right.”

“I love you,” I murmur, the words coming easier now with repetition.

“I love you too.” His hands trace gentle patterns along my spine. “Even when you reorganize my perfectly functional closet.”

I laugh, pulling back to meet his eyes. “Your definition of ‘functional’ is deeply concerning, Carter.”

“And yet you moved in with me anyway.” His smile is soft, intimate in a way that still makes my heart race. “Brave woman.”

“Foolish, maybe.” I reach up to trace the line of his jaw, still marveling sometimes that I get to touch him like this. That he’s real and present and mine.

“Definitely brave,” he insists, catching my hand and pressing a kiss to my palm. “Brave enough to give us a second chance. Brave enough to believe this could be real despite everything.”

We move toward the bedroom, my dress and his shirt creating a trail behind us. When we reach the bed he lays me down with a gentleness that never fails to undo me.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, eyes traveling the length of my body with unconcealed appreciation. “So goddamn beautiful, Elliot.”

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