Page 83 of Across the Boards

“Extremely important,” I confirm solemnly. “This is my one chance to prove I can plan a date that doesn’t involve hockey pucks or body checking.”

“A rare skill among your people.”

“We’re not known for our romantic finesse,” I agree. “More for our missing teeth and ability to function while concussed.”

“Attractive qualities in a potential partner.”

“I’ve still got all my teeth,” I offer, flashing a smile. “Though I can’t promise my brain is entirely undamaged.”

“I gathered that when you moved next door to a woman you talked to once three years ago.”

I wince dramatically. “Ouch. Going for the jugular early, I see.”

But she’s smiling, the barb lacking any real sting. We’ve moved past that hurdle, it seems, at least enough to joke about it.

The waiter arrives with water and a bottle of wine I pre-ordered—a California red I remembered her enjoying at our first dinner with Sarah and Tommy. Elliot raises an eyebrow as he pours.

“Planning ahead?” she asks after he leaves.

“I didn’t want to look indecisive.” I lift my glass. “To traditional first dates and new beginnings.”

“To clear boundaries and honest conversations,” she counters, touching her glass to mine.

There’s an ease between us that wasn’t there at the gala or even during our serious talk at my place. We’re both trying, both invested in making this work. It shows in the way she leans forward when I speak, in how I find myself memorizing the sound of her laugh.

“So,” she says after our entrées arrive, “big game tomorrow. Are you ready?”

I appreciate that she’s broaching the subject rather than avoiding it. “As ready as we can be. Miami’s playing well, but we’ve got home ice advantage and something to prove.”

“And the Jason factor?” Her voice is casual, but her eyes are watchful.

“Just another player we need to shut down,” I say. “Nothing personal on the ice.”

She gives me a skeptical look. “Really? Because Sarah says the whole team is talking about the potential showdown between you two.”

“Sarah has a flair for the dramatic,” I counter, cutting my steak with perhaps more force than necessary. “It’s a hockey game, not the final scene in a Western.”

“So no high noon shootout at center ice?”

“Coach would bench me for the rest of the season,” I say with absolute certainty. “We’re fighting for a playoff position. Personal feelings don’t factor in.”

“Hmm.” She takes a sip of wine, clearly unconvinced.

“What about you?” I ask, changing the subject slightly. “Ready to return to the arena after three years away?”

“Not really,” she admits with surprising candor.

I reach across the table, covering her hand with mine. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone, you know.”

“I know.” She turns her hand to briefly squeeze mine before withdrawing. “This is for me. I spent three years avoiding anything connected to hockey because of him. It’s time I reclaim my life on my terms.”

“Then I’m honored to be part of your reclamation project,” I say with a slight bow of my head.

“You’re not a project, Carter.” Her tone is suddenly serious. “Don’t ever think that.”

“What am I, then?” I ask, genuinely curious about how she sees this—sees us.

She considers this, head tilted slightly in that way I find impossibly endearing. “A plot twist,” she decides finally. “One I didn’t see coming.”

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