Page 70 of Across the Boards

“Carter! What the hell was that?” Coach’s voice cuts through the rink like a bullwhip, making every player on the ice wince in sympathy.

I’ve just missed a defensive assignment so badly that our third-line center had a clean breakaway during the scrimmage. Not exactly my finest moment.

“Sorry, Coach,” I call back, tapping my stick against my shin pads in frustration. “Won’t happen again.”

“Damn right it won’t,” he growls. “Because if I see another space cadet moment like that, you’ll be running stairs until your legs fall off. Focus up!”

I nod, pushing to be present, to keep my mind on the ice and away from Elliot’s living room. Away from the memory of her lips against mine, the soft curve of her waist under my hands, the way her eyes went from warm to cold when I admitted I’d moved to her complex intentionally.

“You alright, man?” Tommy skates up beside me as Coach resets the drill. “You look like someone ran over your dog.”

“I don’t have a dog,” I mutter.

“It’s an expression. But seriously, you good?”

I shake my head slightly. “I screwed up with Elliot last night.”

Tommy’s eyebrows shoot up. “Already? It’s been what, twelve hours since the gala?”

“It’s a gift,” I say grimly. “My efficiency at screwing things up is unmatched.”

“What happened?”

“I—”

“If you ladies are done with your tea party,” Coach bellows from center ice, “we’ve got actual hockey to practice!”

Tommy gives me a sympathetic grimace. “Later,” he mouths, skating back to position.

I settle into the defensive stance I’ve practiced a million times, forcing my mind to narrow to the simple task at hand: protect the net, read the play, anticipate the attack. But even as my body goes through the familiar motions, my thoughts keep drifting back to last night.

And not just last night. The memory of her at that Christmas party three years ago rises unbidden. How she’d been tucked away in a corner with her book while the party raged around her. How she’d looked up when I approached, those dark eyes assessing me coolly before softening when I asked about what she was reading.

“Carter, on your left!” Jensen yells from his position in net.

I snap back to awareness just in time to see Wilson bearing down on my side. I pivot, angling him toward the boards, then poke check the puck cleanly away. It’s a textbook defensive play, the kind I could do in my sleep. And apparently while having an emotional crisis.

“Better,” Coach grudgingly acknowledges. “Now do it without the five-second delay where you contemplate the meaning of life first.”

The guys chuckle, and I force a smile. Focus. I need to focus. For the next two hours, at least, Elliot and her perfect lips and her understandable anger need to stay off the ice.

I manage to keep it together for the rest of practice—not brilliantly, but competently. No more major mistakes, no more spacing out in the middle of plays. Just solid, professional hockey that won’t get me benched but definitely won’t make highlight reels either.

In the locker room afterward, I sit heavily on the bench in front of my stall, unlacing my skates. Around me, the usual post-practice chatter fills the air—guys discussing plays, making plans for the afternoon, complaining about aches and pains. The familiar soundtrack of my professional life for the past decade.

“Alright, talk.” Tommy drops onto the bench beside me. “What happened with Elliot?”

I sigh, pulling off my left skate. “She invited me in after the gala. For ‘not-coffee.’”

“Sounds promising,” Tommy says, not understanding.

“It was. It was very promising. Until I mentioned that I knew where she lived before I moved in.”

Tommy winces. “Ah. That.”

“Yeah, that.” I yank off my right skate with more force than necessary. “She didn’t take it well.”

“Did you explain?”

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