Page 34 of Across the Boards

“I think I just flirted with Brody Carter,” I reply, a little dazed by my own boldness. “And I think he flirted back.”

“Hallelujah!” Sarah exclaims. “It’s a Christmas miracle!”

“It’s not a miracle,” I protest, though I can’t stop the smile spreading across my face. “It’s just a... mutual underwear exchange.”

“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” Sarah teases. “Well, whatever it is, I approve. And you’re definitely wearing that lingerie to the gala now, right?”

I glance down at my phone, at the photo of Brody in all his athletic glory, and feel something shift inside me. A door opening that has been closed for far too long.

“Yes,” I say decisively. “Yes, I am.”

After hanging up with Sarah, I try to focus on work, but my mind keeps drifting back to the image now saved on my phone. To the playful confidence it had taken for Brody to send it. To the way he’d turned my mortification into something mutual and almost...fun.

I find myself grinning at my laptop screen like an idiot. The gala has just gotten a lot more interesting. I still didn’t know what will happen between Brody and me—if anything—but for the first time in years, I’m excited to find out.

And if things go sideways? Well, at least I have one hell of a consolation prize saved in my photo gallery.

6

BRODY

I’ve done some questionable things in my life. Dropped gloves with guys twice my size as a rookie. Played through a hairline fracture in the playoffs. Eaten gas station sushi on a dare.

But standing in my bathroom, wearing nothing but boxer briefs, taking a selfie to send to my neighbor who accidentally sexted me? This might top the list.

“What the hell are you doing, Carter?” I mutter to myself, staring at my reflection. The man in the mirror—hair still damp from the shower, expression caught between embarrassment and determination—looks exactly like what he is: a twenty-seven-year-old professional athlete who’s acting like a teenager with his first crush.

I take the photo anyway.

Send it before I can overthink it more than I already have.

Then drop my phone like it’s suddenly burning hot and pace my bathroom, questioning every life choice that led me to this moment.

Three years. I’ve thought about Elliot Waltman for three years, since that Christmas party where she passionately defended literature while her husband ignored her in favor of chatting up rookies’ girlfriends. Three years of wondering what might have happened if I’d met her first, if circumstances had been different, if I hadn’t been traded to Boston.

And now here I am, living next door to her, sending underwear selfies like some kind of...

My phone chimes. I lunge for it with embarrassing eagerness.

I think I’ll keep it for now, if that’s okay with you. Only fair, since you’ve got mine. Though I’m afraid this means I’ll be thinking about those abs when I’m supposed to be networking at the gala.

Relief and something hotter flood through me. She’s not horrified. Not angry. Maybe even a little...flirty?

Only fair. I’ll be similarly distracted. See you at the gala, Elliot. Looking forward to it more than ever.

Once I hit send, I drop onto the edge of my tub, half-laughing at the absurdity of the situation. This is not how I imagined breaking the ice with Elliot when I signed the lease on the townhouse next to hers. I’d had vague notions of casual neighborly interactions building to friendship, then maybe something more if I was lucky.

Not...whatever this is. Mutual underwear appreciation society?

My phone buzzes with a text from Tommy.

Practice moved to 2pm. Coach has media obligations.

I respond with a thumbs up, then hesitate before asking.

Quick question—on a scale of 1-10, how weird is it to exchange underwear photos with someone you’re not dating?

His reply is immediate.

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