Page 63 of Across the Boards

12

BRODY

The walk from Elliot’s front door to mine takes exactly twelve steps. I count each one, her taste still lingering on my lips, the memory of her body against mine vivid as the moment her expression shifted from desire to dismay. Twelve steps that feel like miles.

Inside my townhouse, the silence is oppressive after the emotional intensity of Elliot’s place. The desert night air still clings to my skin as I step into the artificially cooled interior. I yank off my bow tie, tossing it onto the coffee table with more force than necessary. The tux jacket follows, then the cufflinks that clatter against the hardwood.

“Brilliant, Carter,” I mutter to the empty room. “Three years waiting for a chance with her, and you blow it in one night.”

I sink onto the couch, head in my hands. Not telling Elliot about my decision to move here was a mistake. I see that now, with painful clarity. I didn’t move here to pressure her or manipulate her—I moved here because I couldn’t stop wondering what might have been if circumstances had been different. If I hadn’t been traded to Boston after that season. If she hadn’t been married to Jason.

The memory of our kiss sends a fresh wave of frustration through me. It was perfect—the softness of her lips, the little sound she made when I pulled her closer, the way her hands moved into my hair. Everything I’d imagined and more.

I pull out my phone, staring at the calendar notification that popped up earlier—a reminder that Miami comes to town next week. Jason Martinez and his team, eight days away. Perfect timing. I swipe it away and draft a message to Elliot instead.

I type and delete several versions, nothing seems right. Too casual, too intense, too desperate. Finally, I settle on something simple.

I’m sorry. I should have told you from the beginning. But everything else—every moment between us—has been real. I promise.

I hit send before I can overthink it, then let my head fall back against the couch, eyes closed. The ball is in her court now. She asked for time to think, and I need to respect that, no matter how much it kills me to wait.

The silence of the house presses in again. I stand abruptly and head to my home gym setup in the spare bedroom. It’s not fancy but it’ll do. I strip down to my undershirt and dress pants, cranking up the small oscillating fan that barely combats the lingering heat trapped in this corner of the house.

The physical exertion will clear my head. It always has.

I throw myself into a circuit of exercises, movement replacing thought. Push-ups that burn my shoulders. Pull-ups that strain my arms. Heavy dumbbells that make my legs shake with each lunge. Sweat soaks through my undershirt within minutes—the dry Phoenix heat making it evaporate almost instantly, an endless cycle of perspiration that never provides relief.

Coach’s voice echoes in my head:Focus, Carter. Miami’s coming in hot next week and I need your head in the game.A reminder of the stakes beyond my personal life. The team’s fighting for playoff position, and here I am, distracted by relationship drama like a rookie.

The dumbbells hit the floor with a heavy thud. I’m gasping for breath, sweat dripping into my eyes. It didn’t work. Despite the physical exhaustion, my mind is still fixed on Elliot. On what I should have said. On whether I’ve lost my chance before we even really started.

I grab my phone from where I tossed it on the bench, checking to see if she’s responded. Nothing yet. She asked for time to think, and ‘time’ probably means more than forty minutes.

I type out another message, something more light-hearted.

For what it’s worth, that was the best not-coffee I’ve ever had.

It’s a risk, trying for humor when she’s probably still processing her anger. But it’s also honest—kissing her was incredible, even if the aftermath wasn’t.

Just when I’m about to give up, a response comes through.

Go to sleep, Carter.

Not exactly forgiveness, but not ‘never speak to me again’ either. I’ll take it.

Yes, ma’am. Sweet dreams, Elliot.

I set the phone down, a small weight lifting from my chest. Communication. It’s a start.

I need a shower—I’m drenched in sweat and still half-dressed in formal wear. I catch sight of myself in the mirror—flushed, disheveled, eyes a little wild. This is what Elliot Waltman does to me. Unravels me completely.

The water hits my skin and I close my eyes, letting it wash over my shoulders. As the physical tension begins to ease, my mind wanders inexorably back to Elliot’s living room, to her couch, to the feel of her beneath me as we kissed. To the way her dress had ridden up, exposing the smooth skin of her thighs.

My body responds immediately to the memory, desire coiling low in my stomach. I groan, pressing my forehead against the cool tile. This is the last thing I need right now—to want her even more than I already do.

But the memory persists, vivid and insistent. The softness of her lips. The way she tasted and the curve of her waist under my palm.

I wrap a hand around myself, giving in to the need for release. Fantasy is all I have right now.

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