Page 14 of Across the Boards

“Nice setup,” I comment, gesturing to the coffee station.

“She loves that thing more than she loves me,” Sarah says, pouring wine into glasses. “I’m pretty sure it’s in her will.”

“It should be,” Elliot retorts. “It’s never let me down or committed me to surprise dinner parties.”

“You’ll thank me later,” Sarah says, unrepentant. “That’s what you said about that blind date with the orthodontist,” Elliot points out. “I’m still waiting for the gratitude to kick in.”

“He was perfectly nice!”

“He talked about bicuspids for two hours.”

Tommy hands me a glass of wine. “So, Carter, did you survive practice? Coach seemed especially murderous today.”

“Barely,” I admit, accepting the wine gratefully. “I think he’s still punishing me for that defensive breakdown against Dallas.”

“That wasn’t your fault,” Tommy says loyally. “Jensen was out of position.”

“Don’t let Jensen hear you say that,” I warn. “He’ll put itching powder in your pads again.”

“That was one time!” Tommy protests. “And I apologized.”

“What did you do?” Elliot asks, looking genuinely curious.

Tommy winces. “I might have suggested that his glove side was slower than my grandmother’s internet connection.”

“It was,” I confirm. “But you never tell a goalie that. It’s like hockey rule number one.”

“I thought hockey rule number one was ‘don’t touch another guy’s stick,’” Sarah interjects with a wicked grin.

“Sarah!” Elliot looks scandalized, but she’s fighting a smile.

“What? I’m married to a hockey player. I know things.”

Sarah’s easy comment breaks the tension, much to my relief. We trade stories about Tommy’s rookie mishaps (including the time he accidentally used women’s hair products for a month because he couldn’t read the Swedish labels), Sarah’s event planning disasters (the wedding where the groom’s ex showed up in a wedding dress), and my adventures in Boston.

Through it all, I watch Elliot gradually relax, her laughter coming more freely, her posture less guarded. She’s still careful—I catch the way she monitors her wine intake, the way she redirects questions about herself—but she’s engaging. Present.

“Did you know,” Tommy says, refilling his glass, “that Carter here used to read novels on road trips? The guys in Boston called him ‘Professor.’”

Elliot’s eyes find mine, a flicker of recognition in them. “Really? What kind of novels?”

Is she remembering our conversation from that Christmas party? The way we’d bonded over books while everyone else got wasted around us?

“Classics, mostly,” I admit. “Dumas, Hugo, Dickens. The kind with enough pages to get me through a long flight.”

“Hmm.” Her expression gives nothing away, but I swear there’s something different in her eyes now. “Any new favorites?”

“‘It’s still The Count of Monte Cristo,’” I say without hesitation.

There it is—the flash of memory crossing her face. She does remember.

“You were reading it then, weren’t you?” she says quietly, her eyes never leaving mine. “You asked me about Pride and Prejudice.”

“And you said it was your twelfth time reading it.” I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. “I was impressed.”

“I’m more impressed you remember that,” she counters, something soft and surprised in her expression.

The moment stretches between us, charged with three years of unspoken thoughts. I want to tell her I remember everything about that night—the way she’d tucked her hair behind her ear when she was thinking, how she’d laughed at my terrible impression of my English lit professor, the sadness that had flickered in her eyes when Jason interrupted us.

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