Page 93 of Across the Boards

“We’ll see about that,” he replies, and there’s something in his tone—a calculated malice—that sends a chill through me. “Game’s not over yet.”

Play resumes, tension crackling through the arena. The crowd senses the personal battle underlying the game, their reactions growing louder with each interaction between Jason and me.

21

ELLIOT

By the third period, the tension on the ice is palpable. Phoenix leads 3-1, but Miami is pressing hard for a comeback. I find myself holding my breath whenever Brody and Jason share the ice, a sick feeling in my stomach at what might be unfolding between them.

But my mind keeps drifting back to the moment before the game, when Brody first spotted me in the stands during warm-ups.

I’d been sitting with Sarah, nervously adjusting the jersey when I felt it—that prickling awareness of being watched. I looked up to find him staring at me from center ice, his practice routine momentarily forgotten.

Even through his helmet, I could see the moment recognition dawned, his eyes widening slightly as he saw me. He’d skated toward our section without hesitation, stopping at the glass right in front of me.

“You wore it,” he’d mouthed, a grin spreading across his face.

I’d shrugged, trying for nonchalance despite the flutter in my chest. “It felt right.”

His eyes had darkened even as he smiled, placing his gloved hand against the glass. I’d matched mine to it on the other side, an oddly intimate gesture despite the barrier between us.

“Looks good,” he’d mouthed, his smirk downright wicked before he’d been called back to drills.

My phone had buzzed moments later with a text.

You in my jersey is officially my new favorite thing. Fair warning: might play extra hard tonight just to impress you.

Don’t hurt yourself showing off, Carter. Though I admit the name on my back feels... right somehow.

Damn right it does. Keep it warm for me. I’ll have my hands all over it later.

The memory heats my cheeks even now, hours later, as I watch him defend our zone with fierce determination. There’s something undeniably attractive about seeing him in his element, powerful and focused, especially knowing those heated looks and promises are directed at me.

It happens with six minutes left in the game. Jason charges at Brody behind the Phoenix net, his trajectory making it clear he’s targeting the man, not the puck. The hit is ugly—an elbow to the chin that snaps Brody’s head back against the glass.

“Oh my god,” I gasp, rising halfway out of my seat as Brody drops to one knee.

The referee’s arm goes up immediately, signaling a penalty. But before he can blow the whistle, Jason skates past our section, looking directly at me. The gesture he makes is unmistakably obscene—a crude simulation with his tongue and hand followed by a pelvic thrust that leaves nothing to the imagination.

The message is clear: You mean nothing. You’re a joke.

It happens so fast that most of the crowd misses it. But I see it. Sarah sees it. And so does Brody, who’s back on his feet and charging across the ice before I can process what’s happening.

Gloves drop. Fists fly. The crowd erupts in a mixture of shock and bloodthirsty excitement as Brody lands a solid right hook to Jason’s jaw.

“Holy shit,” Sarah breathes beside me. “He just—did you see—oh my GOD.”

I can’t look away as the two men grapple on the ice, trading blows. It’s surreal, watching my past and present collide so literally. Jason, the man I once loved, who betrayed and humiliated me. And Brody, this new presence in my life, fighting—literally fighting—because of a gesture directed at me.

The linesmen finally manage to separate them, each player led to their respective penalty boxes. The verdict comes over the PA system moments later: matching fighting majors and game misconducts. Both ejected.

As Brody is escorted down the tunnel, he glances up at our section. Our eyes meet briefly, and he raises a hand in a gesture that looks almost apologetic. Then he’s gone, disappearing into the bowels of the arena.

“Are you okay?” Sarah asks, watching me carefully.

“I’m not sure,” I admit. “This is... a lot.”

“Jason is such a complete asshole,” she seethes. “That gesture was disgusting.”

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