Page 50 of Across the Boards

“Champagne first,” she decides. “Let’s not peak too early.”

We make our way to the bar, my hand remaining supportively at her back. I’m aware of the glances we’re receiving—curious, speculative, occasionally disapproving. Elliot seems to notice too, her spine straightening incrementally with each look.

“You know,” I say conversationally as we wait for our drinks, “if you get any more rigid, I could use you as a hockey stick in the next game.”

She snorts, some tension leaving her shoulders. “Are you saying I look stiff?”

“I’m saying you look like you’re prepared to duel someone with a dessert fork at any moment.”

“That’s my secret, Carter. I’m always prepared to duel with cutlery.” She accepts her champagne from the bartender with a small nod. “Standard technical editor training.”

“Remind me never to criticize your comma usage.”

“Wise decision. I once made an author cry over semicolon abuse.”

I laugh, steering us toward a relatively quiet corner of the room. “Semicolons are the devil’s punctuation. I never know when to use them.”

“They’re actually quite simple; you just need to understand their purpose,” she says, eyes twinkling as she deliberately uses one in her sentence.

“Show-off.”

She takes a sip of champagne, surveying the room over the rim of her glass. “So, this is your world, huh? Fancy parties and silent auctions?”

“Hardly,” I scoff. “My world is more ice packs and protein shakes. This is just the shiny wrapping paper we put on the sport a few times a year to convince rich people to give us money for charity.”

“Cynical, but accurate.”

“I’d say ‘realistic, but optimistic.’ The money does go to good causes.”

“True,” she concedes. “Sarah mentioned this year’s proceeds are funding literacy programs?”

“And hockey equipment for underserved schools,” I add. “The team matches all donations.”

“Impressive.”

“We’re not complete Neanderthals,” I say with mock offense. “Some of us can even read books without moving our lips.”

She laughs, and the sound draws attention from a nearby group of players. I recognize Jensen, our goalie, among them, and he raises his glass in greeting before making his way over.

“Carter!” he calls, clapping me on the shoulder with enough force to make me grateful I’m not holding my drink in that hand. “You clean up almost like a real person.”

“Thanks,” I reply dryly. “Always appreciate your deeply insightful compliments.”

Jensen grins, then turns his attention to Elliot. “And you must be the famous Elliot. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“All lies, I’m sure,” she says, offering her hand.

“Depends on who’s doing the talking,” Jensen replies, shaking it. “Carter here says you’re brilliant and intimidating. Tommy says you once made his wife snort wine through her nose with a single comment about the Bachelor.”

Elliot’s eyebrows rise. “Both accurate, though the wine incident was unintentional.”

“The best ones usually are,” Jensen agrees. His eyes flicker with recognition, and I realize he’s placing her. “You used to come to games a few years back, right?”

“Yes,” Elliot says simply, her smile never wavering though I feel her tense beside me. “That was a different lifetime.”

Jensen, bless him, picks up on her discomfort immediately. “Well, you picked a better defenseman this time around. Carter here only falls down on the ice about sixty percent of the time.”

“Forty percent, tops,” I protest, grateful for his quick pivot.

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