Page 10 of Across the Boards

I’m an idiot. A complete and total idiot who just threw his equipment bag directly at his own feet for the third time this morning. But I have a good excuse—I just touched Elliot Waltman’s hand. The same Elliot Waltman who’s been living in my head rent-free since that Christmas party three years ago.

I rub my shin where the bag hit, limping dramatically even though no one’s around to see it. My townhouse feels half-empty still, boxes stacked in corners from the move back to Phoenix just a month ago. It’s strange being back after four years away—traded first to Boston and now back where my career started.

Some things change. Some don’t. My inability to act normal around Elliot Waltman definitely hasn’t changed.

I was just a rookie the first time I saw her. Twenty-two, fresh out of Boston University, nervous as hell at my first big team event—Jason Martinez’s annual Christmas party. Everyone who was anyone in Phoenix hockey was there, from team ownership to the equipment managers. And there she was, standing in a corner, a glass of champagne untouched in her hand, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else.

I’d noticed her before at team functions. Jason Martinez’s wife. The quiet one who never quite fit with the other wives and girlfriends. While they clustered in groups discussing designer bags and spa weekends, she usually found a quiet corner with a book, or engaged the few team staff with advanced degrees in conversation about something completely unrelated to hockey.

That night, I’d wandered away from the main party, overwhelmed by the noise and the performance of it all—veterans hazing rookies, management evaluating our “character” based on how we handled our alcohol, wives and girlfriends sizing each other up in a complex social hierarchy I couldn’t begin to understand.

I found her later in the study, curled up in a leather chair, reading as if the party wasn’t happening just beyond the door.

“Sorry,” I’d said when she looked up, startled. “Didn’t mean to disturb you.”

She’d studied me for a moment, brown eyes assessing. Then, surprisingly, her expression had softened. “You’re not disturbing me. Just escaping for a bit.”

“Same.” I’d shifted awkwardly, gesturing to her book. “What are you reading?”

“Pride and Prejudice,” she’d replied, a small, defensive note in her voice that suggested she was used to being mocked for her literary tastes. “For approximately the twelfth time.”

“I’ve never read it,” I admitted. “Is it good? For someone to read it twelve times, it must be.”

And that’s when it happened—the transformation that’s still burned into my memory. Her whole face had lit up, the careful mask falling away as she began talking about why this nineteenth-century novel still resonated, how Elizabeth Bennet’s struggle against societal expectations reflected modern women’s experiences.

For thirty minutes, we’d sat there, discussing literature. She’d asked what I was reading (Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo, a fact that had raised her eyebrows with newfound respect), what other classics I’d tackled, why I’d chosen to major in History with a Literature minor when most hockey players barely finished their required courses.

It was the first real conversation I’d had since arriving in Phoenix. Not about hockey stats or team dynamics or which rookie was most likely to be sent down. Just two people talking about books and ideas and the world beyond the rink.

Then Jason had appeared, clearly drunk, a possessive arm sliding around her shoulders and pulling her away to deal with something about a charity function.

The change was immediate and heartbreaking. The light in her eyes dimmed, her posture stiffened, her voice shifted to that carefully modulated tone of someone walking on eggshells. “Of course. I was just chatting with?—”

“Carter,” I’d supplied when Jason didn’t bother to ask. “Brody Carter. Defenseman.”

“Right, right. The college boy from Boston.” Jason had barely glanced at me. “Come on, Elle. You know Markson’s wife hates to be kept waiting.”

As he’d led her away, she’d glanced back, a small apologetic smile that somehow made everything worse.

A few months later, I was traded to Boston. Business of hockey, they said. Phoenix needed offensive power, Boston wanted young defensive talent. Nothing personal.

Except hockey is always personal when you’re the one being moved across the country mid-season.

Boston was good to me. Three solid seasons, growing into my game, finding my voice in the locker room. I kept tabs on Phoenix from a distance—hard not to when you’re facing a team twice a year. I saw Elliot a few times during away games, always at Jason’s side, always with that same careful mask in place.

Then the scandal broke. Jason Martinez, Phoenix’s golden boy, caught in a very public affair with an ice girl. The tabloids had a field day. The divorce was uglier, with rumors of multiple affairs, gaslighting, emotional abuse.

I remembered that Christmas party conversation. The way she’d lit up talking about Elizabeth Bennet’s refusal to marry without respect and affection. The way that light had vanished the moment Jason appeared. It made too much sense.

When Tommy Harrington called me last month after my trade to Phoenix was official, my heart had done something complicated in my chest.

“You know who else is in Phoenix?” Tommy had said casually. “Elliot Waltman. Jason’s ex-wife. She and Sarah became friends during the divorce drama. They’re super close now.”

“Waltman? She went back to her maiden name?”

“Wouldn’t you? Anyway, she lives in that new townhouse development off Camelback. The Pines. Nice place.”

I’d made sure my voice was neutral when I asked, “She doing okay?”

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