Page 89 of Across the Boards

“As I was saying,” he continues with a pointed look in my direction, “Martinez likes to set up at the left circle for the one-timer. Carter, I want you pressuring him immediately, take away his time and space.”

“Got it.” I make a note on my tablet, studiously ignoring the knowing smirk Kelly is sending my way from across the room.

The meeting continues, Coach drilling us on assignments, tendencies, weaknesses to exploit. It’s detailed, thorough, professional. Exactly what we need before facing a team like Miami.

“One last thing,” Coach says as we prepare to leave for our pre-game routines. “I know there’s history with some of their players.” His gaze sweeps the room but lingers on me. “Keep your emotions in check. We need these points. Personal vendettas don’t help us in the standings. Clear?”

“Clear, Coach,” we chorus.

In the locker room, Tommy sidles up beside me. “Sarah just texted. She’s picking up Elliot at 5:00. Dinner before the game.”

“Great,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Did she mention the package I sent?”

Tommy’s eyebrows shoot up. “Package? What did you send her?”

“A jersey,” I say, shoving him lightly. “My jersey.”

His expression turns serious. “Damn. That’s a statement. Think she’ll wear it?”

“No idea.” I zip up my bag, avoiding his eyes. “It was probably too much, too soon.”

“Nah.” He claps me on the shoulder. “Elliot understands hockey culture. She’ll get what it means, and she’s not the type to send mixed signals. If she wears it, she means it.”

“That’s what I’m counting on,” I admit. “But no pressure either way.”

“Right.” Tommy’s tone is skeptical. “No pressure. Just your jersey with your name on it that basically announces to everyone in the arena, including her ex-husband, that you two are a thing.”

“When you put it that way, it sounds slightly insane.”

“Most grand gestures do,” he says philosophically. “Now go home and nap. You look like you need it.”

He’s not wrong. After a restless night thinking about Elliot—the date, the kiss, the jersey—I’m operating on maybe four hours of sleep. Not ideal before facing a playoff-caliber team.

I follow my usual pre-game routine on autopilot. Lunch. Drive home. Attempt to nap, though actual sleep proves elusive. Protein shake. Dress in game-day suit. Drive to the arena three hours before puck drop.

Through it all, I resist the urge to text Elliot. Ball in her court, I remind myself. No pressure.

The arena is already buzzing when I arrive—a palpable energy building toward the 7:00 PM start. I make my way to the locker room, greeting arena workers I’ve known since my first stint with the team years ago.

Our stalls are prepared, equipment laid out and ready. I change into workout clothes for my pre-game routine—dynamic stretching, some light plyometrics, a specific sequence of movements designed to activate key muscle groups.

As game time approaches, the locker room fills with teammates following their own rituals. Jensen in the corner with his headphones, repeating the same three stretches exactly eighteen times. Ramirez taping and retaping his stick, muttering what sounds like prayers in Spanish. Kelly texting with rapid-fire thumbs—to Jason, no doubt, providing intelligence from enemy territory.

Tommy drops into the stall beside mine. “They’re here,” he says without preamble.

My heart rate kicks up. “And?”

His grin says it all. “She’s wearing it, man. The jersey. Your name, your number.”

Something primal and possessive unfurls in my chest—satisfaction mixed with a fierce protectiveness that surprises me with its intensity. “Really?”

“Really. Sarah almost fell over when Elliot told her about it. Said she didn’t even know you’d sent it.”

I try to process this while maintaining my pre-game composure. Elliot is here. Wearing my jersey. Making that statement for everyone—including Jason—to see.

“Is she doing okay?” I ask, suddenly concerned that she might be overwhelmed by her return to the hockey world. “Not too uncomfortable?”

“Sarah says she’s handling it like a champ. A few double-takes from people who recognize her, but nothing major yet.” He glances at the clock. “Miami’s not on the ice for warm-ups yet. That’ll be the real test.”

---