Page 90 of Across the Boards

I nod, understanding the implication. Once Jason takes the ice, once he potentially spots his ex-wife in the family box wearing my jersey, all bets are off.

“Focus on the game,” I remind myself as much as Tommy. “Nothing else matters once the puck drops.”

“Exactly.” He fist-bumps me before returning to his stall. “Just hockey.”

But as I finish dressing for warm-ups—base layers, pads, practice jersey—I know it won’t be just hockey. Not with Jason on the other side. Not with Elliot watching. Not with the complex web of history and feelings connecting the three of us whether we like it or not.

19

ELLIOT

“Stop fidgeting,” Sarah hisses as we enter the arena. “You look amazing.”

I smooth the jersey for the hundredth time, hyper-aware of the name displayed across my back. “I feel like everyone is staring.”

“They are,” Sarah confirms cheerfully. “But because you look hot, not because they’re judging you.”

I seriously doubt that, but I straighten my shoulders anyway. The jersey, paired with dark jeans and ankle boots, looks better than I’d expected. Casual but polished, not trying too hard but clearly making a statement.

The family section is already half-full when we arrive—wives, girlfriends, and children of Phoenix players gathering for the game. Some faces I recognize from my previous life as Jason’s wife; others are new in the three years since I last attended a game.

“Elliot?” A voice calls from a few rows up. “Oh my god, it is you!”

Melissa Cooper, still perfect in designer athleisure, waves enthusiastically. “I heard rumors you might be here tonight, but I didn’t believe it! And...” Her eyes widen as she registers the jersey. “Oh. OH. Well! This is a development!”

“Hi, Melissa,” I say, forcing a polite smile. “Yes, I’m back in the hockey world. Somewhat.”

“And apparently dating our new defenseman,” she adds, eyes gleaming with the prospect of fresh gossip. “David says he’s quite the catch. Very different from Jason.”

The way she says it—almost apologetic, as if Jason was somehow defective merchandise I got stuck with—makes my jaw clench. But I keep my expression neutral. “Yes, he is.”

“How did you two meet? Was it before or after his trade back to Phoenix? Is it serious?” The questions come rapid-fire, barely disguised as friendly interest.

“We’re neighbors,” I say simply. “And still getting to know each other.”

“But wearing his jersey already,” she notes with raised eyebrows. “That’s quite a statement.”

“Yes, it is,” I agree, offering nothing more.

Sarah, bless her, intervenes. “We should find our seats. The teams will be coming out for warm-ups soon.”

“Of course, of course.” Melissa gestures vaguely to the section behind her. “Most of us are sitting up there. You should join us! I’m sure everyone would love to catch up.”

“Maybe later,” I demur, following Sarah to our assigned seats—thankfully several rows away from the main cluster of team wives.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Sarah says once we’re seated. “Only mild vulture vibes from Melissa.”

“She’s already texting everyone,” I predict, watching Melissa’s fingers flying over her phone screen. “The entire section will know within minutes.”

“Let them know,” Sarah says firmly. “You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

She’s right, I know. But years of conditioning—of being the perfect, discreet hockey wife who never caused drama—are hard to break. I take a deep breath, focusing on the ice where arena workers are making final preparations.

When the Phoenix team skates out for warm-ups, my eyes automatically find number 43. Brody moves with the fluid grace of an elite athlete, his power evident even in the casual skating patterns of the warm-up routine. I try to imagine how he’ll react when he sees me in his jersey. Will he be pleased? Surprised? Worried that I’m making too public a statement too soon?

He glances up at our section during a break in drills, scanning the crowd. When his gaze lands on me, I see his eyes widen slightly in recognition. Then—as he realizes what I’m wearing—something shifts in his expression. Pride, pleasure, and something more possessive flash across his features before skates over and puts his glove up against the glass.

“God, the look on his face!” Sarah says unnecessarily after he’s gone, practically vibrating with glee. “Tommy owes me twenty bucks.”

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