Page 77 of Across the Boards

“I don’t,” I say automatically, then reconsider. “Or at least, I didn’t use to. But the divorce made me more aware of... perceptions. Of being judged.”

His expression softens. “Elliot, I don’t care what anyone thinks about us. And for the record, I don’t see you as older. I just see you as... you.”

It’s a sweet sentiment, but reality isn’t that simple. “You might not care now, but what about in five years? Ten? When I’m approaching fifty and you’re still in your prime?”

“First of all, bold of you to assume my prime isn’t already behind me,” he jokes. “I pulled a muscle getting out of bed last week.”

“I’m serious, Brody.”

“I know.” He reaches across the counter, not quite touching my hand but close. “And I’m telling you, it doesn’t matter to me. I’m interested in who you are, not what year you were born.”

I want to believe him. Part of me does. But another part—the part that spent three years rebuilding after Jason—is still wary of anything that seems too good to be true.

“And what about the hockey thing?” I ask, moving to safer ground. “I’ve done the hockey wife routine. It wasn’t for me.”

“I’m not asking you to be a hockey wife,” he says. “I’m just asking you to give this—whatever this is between us—a chance. On your terms.”

“My terms?”

“Yes.” He meets my eyes directly. “You set the pace. You decide what you’re comfortable with, how much or little of the hockey world you want to be part of. I won’t push.”

It’s exactly what I need to hear, which makes me automatically suspicious. “That’s very... accommodating.”

“I can be a jerk if it would make you more comfortable,” he offers with a straight face. “Demand you attend every game, bake cookies for the team. Really lean into those toxic masculine stereotypes.”

Despite myself, I laugh. “Please don’t.”

“Too late, I’m committed now.” He deepens his voice comically. “Woman, fetch me a beer and don’t talk during the game.”

“Stop it,” I say, still laughing. “You’re terrible at that.”

“I know.” His smile is warm, genuine. “It’s not really my style.”

We finish our omelets in a more comfortable silence. I find myself studying him when he’s not looking—the strong line of his jaw, the way his brow furrows slightly in concentration as he eats, the careful way he handles his fork and knife. Small details that shouldn’t matter but somehow do.

“So,” he says finally, setting down his empty plate. “Where does this leave us?”

It’s the question I’ve been dreading and anticipating in equal measure. What do I want? The safe answer would be friendship—clear boundaries, limited vulnerability. But friendship doesn’t explain the flutter in my stomach when he smiles, or how vividly I remember the feel of his lips against mine.

“I’m not sure,” I admit. “I like you, Brody. More than I expected to. But I’m still...”

“Scared?” he supplies when I trail off.

“Cautious,” I correct, though he’s not wrong. “I rushed into things with Jason, ignored red flags because he was charming and attentive. I don’t want to make the same mistakes.”

“That makes sense.” He nods, encouragingly. “So what would help you feel more comfortable? More time? Space? A background check? Character references from my kindergarten teacher?”

His ability to inject humor into serious conversations is a gift—it diffuses tension without dismissing the underlying concerns.

“Time, definitely,” I say. “And maybe we could take a step back, do this more... traditionally?”

“You mean like actual dates? In public places? With scheduled end times and no ‘not-coffee’ invitations?” There’s no mockery in his tone, just clarification.

“Yes. Exactly.” Relief floods through me that he understands. “I’d like to get to know you better, outside of... physical attraction.”

He smirks slightly. “So you admit there’s physical attraction?”

“I invited you in for ‘not-coffee,’ Carter. I think we’ve established mutual attraction.”

---