Page 125 of Across the Boards

Blood drips from my split knuckles onto the pristine surface below. I flex my fingers, feeling the sting of broken skin, the throb of what might be a fracture in my right hand. Worth it. Absolutely worth it for the satisfaction of feeling Jason Martinez’s face beneath my fist, for the sound of his head hitting the ice, for the momentary silencing of that poisonous mouth.

Coach stands on the bench, arms crossed, expression thunderous. My teammates watch from a distance—some concerned, others oddly impressed. The officials huddle around the replay monitor, determining my fate. Across the ice, Jason sits in the visitors’ penalty box, holding a towel to his bloodied face, Miami’s trainer attending to him.

None of it seems particularly real. Just images flickering at the edges of my consciousness while my mind keeps replaying everything Martinez threw my way.

Carter, your girl’s still got that thing she does with her tongue. Remember to thank me for teaching her that before you came along. Couldn’t resist when she begged for it in Seattle.

And.

That mouth of hers is still good for one thing, and it isn’t all that grammar bullshit. Didn’t take much to get her back where she belongs. On her knees, looking up at me.

Finally, the words that broke my control.

Hey Carter, you know what’s funny? While you were playing in San Jose, I was playing between her legs. How’s it feel knowing every time you kiss her you’re tasting where I finished in Seattle? Always loved how desperate you second-string guys are for my leftovers.

They hit like a physical blow, each syllable a knife twisting in my gut. Time slowed to a crawl, the roar of the crowd fading to white noise.

How fucking dare he take my moments with Elliot and twist them. Everything between us had been raw, profound, sacred. Something I’d never experienced before her. Something I’d never even considered doing until that night, when her pleasure had become more important than anything else.

Three weeks of discipline, of channeling my heartbreak into hockey, of maintaining focus despite his constant targeting—all obliterated in the face of those words.

I’m not sorry. Should be, probably. Professional athletes are supposed to have thicker skin, supposed to let trash talk roll off like water. But some lines can’t be crossed. Some things can’t be forgiven.

The officials skate over, decision made. Game misconduct for both of us. Automatic suspension pending league review. I’m escorted down the tunnel while the crowd’s reaction washes over me in waves—boos for Jason, cheers for me, the general bloodlust of twenty thousand people who came for hockey and got a gladiatorial spectacle instead.

The locker room is empty when I arrive, the rest of the team still on the ice with five minutes left in a tied playoff game. The silence grows heavier, broken only by the methodical movements of the trainer examining my hand.

“Might be broken,” he says, probing my swollen knuckles. “Need X-rays to be sure.”

I nod, barely registering the pain. Physical discomfort is nothing compared to the hollow ache that’s been my constant companion since Elliot left for Seattle. Since she chose fear over us. Since she walked away from something that had barely begun but already felt more significant than anything I’d experienced before.

The locker room door bangs open, Coach entering with the fury of a brewing storm.

“What the hell was that?” he demands, voice deadly quiet. “After all our discussions about discipline. After all your promises to keep it professional.”

“He crossed a line,” I say simply.

“There are no lines in playoff hockey! Just points on the scoreboard!” Coach paces in front of me. “Whatever Martinez said, whatever bullshit he was spewing, you cost your team by taking the bait.”

I meet his gaze steadily. “Some things matter more than hockey.”

Coach stops pacing, studying me with narrowed eyes. “Elliot Waltman matters more? Is that it?”

“Yes.” No hesitation. No qualification.

He sighs, anger deflating into something more like exhaustion. “You’re looking at a suspension, Carter. Probably multiple games. Possibly the rest of the series depending on how the disciplinary committee feels.”

“I know.”

“And that doesn’t bother you? The fact that you’ve potentially cost us our playoff run because you couldn’t control your temper?”

It should bother me. Hockey has been the center of my life for as long as I can remember. The thing that defined me, shaped me, gave purpose to my days.

But in the weeks without Elliot—without her sharp wit, her careful smile, the quiet intensity she brings to everything—has clarified something I’d been slow to recognize: hockey isn’t enough anymore. Maybe it never was.

“I’m sorry I let the team down,” I say finally. “But I’m not sorry I hit him.”

Coach studies me for a long moment, then drops onto the bench beside me. “What did he say? Must have been pretty bad to make you snap like that.”

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