Page 23 of Across the Boards

“You’re doing it again,” Tommy says as we head toward the locker room. “The weird smiling thing.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I lie, shoving him lightly.

“Uh-huh.” He looks thoroughly unconvinced. “Sarah says Elliot’s been acting strange too. Humming while she works. Wearing actual colors instead of her usual black and gray. Clear signs of hockey player contamination.”

“Contamination? Nice, man.”

“Sarah’s word, not mine.” He grins. “I think it’s a good thing. She hasn’t been this... light... since before the divorce.”

Something warm unfurls in my chest at his words. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Tommy’s expression turns serious. “Just don’t mess it up, okay? She’s not like the puck bunnies you usually date.”

“First of all, I haven’t dated a ‘puck bunny’ since my rookie year,” I say, slightly offended. “Second, I know exactly who Elliot is. That’s kind of the whole point.”

Tommy studies me for a moment, then nods. “Good. Because Sarah will literally murder you if you hurt her friend. And then I’ll have to help hide your body, which would really mess with our defensive line.”

“You already said that once. I got it.”

“It’s worth repeating.” He claps me on the shoulder. “Now go shower. You smell like desperation and ice sweat.”

I flip him off good-naturedly and head for the showers, already thinking about the week ahead. Game day, then tacos, then maybe…

* * *

Game days havea superstition-laden routine that most hockey players follow religiously. Mine involves the same breakfast (three eggs, toast, avocado), the same warm-up playlist (heavy on 90s hip hop), and absolutely no talking about the game until I hit the ice.

Today, I add something new: a text to Elliot.

Good luck coffee delivery on your doorstep. Don’t want to disturb your morning, but thought you might need fuel for editing.

I set my phone down and continue tying my shoes, trying not to stare at it like a teenage boy waiting for his crush to text back. I’m twenty-seven, for God’s sake. A professional athlete. I can handle waiting for a?—

My phone buzzes.

Did you seriously leave a latte and a chocolate croissant on my doorstep? Who ARE you?

Just a neighbor with excellent taste in breakfast pastries. And maybe a slight ulterior motive.

Which is?

Game night. Hoping you might watch. Channel 15, 7pm. No pressure.

There’s a long pause before her reply comes through, during which I absolutely do not hold my breath.

I might have it on in the background. For noise.

The most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.

Don’t push your luck, Carter. And thank you for the coffee. It was... thoughtful.

You’re welcome. Have a good day, Elliot.

Good luck tonight. Not that I care about the outcome or anything.

Of course not. That would be ridiculous.

I set my phone down, still grinning. She’ll be watching. Maybe not closely, maybe just “for noise,” but she’ll be watching. It shouldn’t matter—I’ve played in front of thousands of fans, in playoff games, in overtime—but somehow knowing that Elliot might see me score makes tonight’s game feel more important than all of those combined.

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