Page 76 of Across the Boards

“So I thought I’d move in, see if we hit it off naturally, and then tell you once we knew each other better. But the longer I waited, the harder it became to bring up.” He pours beaten eggs into a heated pan, the sizzle filling the silence. “For what it’s worth, I never planned the locked-out incident. That was genuinely me being an idiot.”

“A conveniently shirtless idiot,” I note, unable to keep the dry humor from my voice.

He has the grace to look sheepish. “The shirtless part was genuine too. I usually run without a shirt when it’s warm enough. But I won’t pretend I was upset that you answered the door.”

I watch as he expertly flips the omelet, adding cheese and vegetables to one half before folding it over. “You’re good at that.”

“Thanks. Like I said, I considered culinary school if hockey didn’t work out.” He slides the finished omelet onto a plate and hands it to me. “Forks in the drawer to your left.”

I retrieve two forks while he starts on the second omelet. “You still haven’t really answered my question from last night. Why me? We barely knew each other.”

He’s quiet for a moment, focusing on the eggs. When he finally speaks, his voice has a thoughtfulness I’m beginning to recognize—a contrast to his usual energetic demeanor.

“That Christmas party, when we talked about books... it was the first real conversation I’d had at a team function. Everyone else wanted to talk about stats or trades or who was sleeping with whom. But you treated me like a person, not just a hockey player.” He flips his omelet effortlessly. “And then Jason came over, drunk and condescending, and I watched how he treated you. How you kind of... diminished yourself around him. It stuck with me.”

I take a bite of omelet to avoid responding immediately. It’s delicious, perfectly cooked and seasoned.

“When the divorce news broke,” he continues, “I was in Boston by then. But I thought about you, wondered if you were okay. Thought about reaching out, but what would I say? ‘Hey, remember me? We talked about books once, and now I’m calling because your husband’s a jerk’?”

“That would have been awkward,” I agree.

“Exactly. So I didn’t. But I still thought about you sometimes.” He plates his own omelet and joins me at the counter. “When Tommy mentioned you lived here, that you were doing well, it felt like a second chance. A do-over.”

I study him, looking for any sign of insincerity, any hint of the manipulation I became so familiar with during my marriage. But all I see is openness—vulnerable and a little nervous, but honest.

“That’s either incredibly sweet or moderately concerning,” I say finally. “I haven’t decided which.”

He laughs, some tension leaving his shoulders. “Fair enough. If you’d seemed unhappy with my presence or uninterested in getting to know me, I would have backed off immediately. I promise I’m not actually a stalker.”

“Just a man with an excellent memory and questionable decision-making skills.”

“That should be on my hockey card,” he agrees, grinning. “‘Brody Carter: Defenseman, culinary enthusiast, questionable decision-maker.’”

I can’t help but smile back. That’s the thing about Brody—he disarms me, makes me laugh when I’m determined to stay serious. It’s annoying and endearing all at once.

“This is really good,” I say, gesturing to the omelet. “The chef career would have worked out.”

“There’s still time. Hockey players don’t exactly have long shelf lives.”

The casual reference to his age—or rather, to the limited span of his career—makes me think of my own concerns about our age difference. He’s not even thirty. I’m closer to forty. By the time he retires from hockey, I’ll be well into my forties, while he’ll still be a young man with his life ahead of him.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, eyes intent on my face. “You got quiet all of a sudden.”

“Age,” I admit, deciding honesty is the best approach. “Yours. Mine. The gap between them.”

“Ah.” He takes a bite of his omelet, chewing thoughtfully. “Nine years, right?”

“Nine years is a lot. Especially at our ages.”

“Is it?” He sets down his fork. “My parents had a twelve-year gap. They were married for twenty-five years.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“For one thing, men typically date younger women. It’s socially accepted. The reverse is still considered... unconventional.”

“Since when do you care about conventional?” he challenges.

---