Page 91 of Across the Boards

“Your marriage is weird,” I inform her, but I’m smiling too, a strange exhilaration building in my chest. I did this. I made this choice. I’m here, in Brody’s jersey, not hiding anymore.

The warm feeling lasts until Miami takes the ice for their warm-up. My stomach tightens as I scan the blue jerseys, knowing I’ll find the one name I’ve avoided for three years.

Jason. Number 91. Still as confident on the ice as ever, his skating smooth and sure. I wonder if he knows I’m here yet. If the hockey gossip network has already informed him that his ex-wife is in the stands.

I get my answer moments later when he breaks from the Miami warm-up pattern and skates to the side of the rink nearest our section. His gaze finds me unerringly, as if he knew exactly where to look. I watch as his expression changes—recognition, shock, then a cold fury as he registers the jersey I’m wearing.

“Well, well, well,” he calls, loud enough for me and several rows around us to hear. “Look who’s back in the building. New accessory, Elliot?”

I say nothing, refusing to engage. Sarah, beside me, is less restrained.

“Fuck off, Martinez,” she calls cheerfully. “Go practice for getting your ass kicked tonight.”

His eyes narrow, but a teammate calls him back to the warm-up, forcing him to skate away. Not before he makes a dismissive gesture in my direction, though—a flick of his hand like he’s brushing away something insignificant.

“You okay?” Sarah asks quietly as he rejoins his team.

“Fine.” And surprisingly, I am. Three years ago, that encounter would have devastated me—left me shaking and near tears. Now I just feel... calm. Detached, almost. Jason’s opinion of me, his approval or disapproval, no longer matters.

I catch a glimpse of Brody watching the exchange from across the ice, his posture stiff with what I recognize as protective concern. He takes a step in our direction, but a teammate intercepts him, steering him toward the tunnel as warm-ups conclude.

“That could have been worse,” Sarah observes as both teams leave the ice. “Though I have a feeling we haven’t seen the last of Jason’s tantrum.”

“Probably not,” I agree. “But I’m not worried.”

And I realize I mean it. Whatever Jason might say or do, it can’t hurt me anymore. Not when I’m here on my terms, making my own choices. Wearing Brody’s jersey not because I’m trying to be the perfect hockey girlfriend, but because I want to make a statement—to Jason, to the hockey world, and most importantly, to myself.

I am Elliot Waltman. I survived Jason Martinez. I rebuilt my life. And now I’m reclaiming my right to be here, to move forward, to explore whatever this thing with Brody might become.

Let Jason glare. Let the hockey wives gossip. Let the whole arena see me in Brody’s jersey.

I’m done hiding.

20

BRODY

Warm-ups are a blur of routine motions—skating patterns, passing drills, shooting sequences. I scan the stands during a break, spotting section 109 where team families sit. Even from a distance, I can see her—dark hair, familiar posture, and the unmistakable home-team red.

My chest tightens. She came. She wore it. She’s really here.

Our eyes meet across the distance, and she raises a hand in a small wave. I nod in acknowledgment, fighting back what would certainly be a ridiculous grin inappropriate for pre-game intensity.

As we finish our warm-up routine, Miami takes the ice for theirs. I deliberately avoid looking for Jason, focusing instead on my own preparation. But a commotion near the family section draws my attention.

Jason, in his Miami blue, has skated to the side of the rink nearest section 109. He’s looking up, obviously having spotted Elliot. Even from across the ice, I can see his expression change as he registers the jersey she’s wearing. His posture stiffens, his face hardening into something cold and angry.

He says something—I’m too far away to hear what—but Elliot’s reaction makes it clear it wasn’t pleasant. She stares down at him impassively, not responding, not retreating. Sarah, beside her, looks ready to climb over the glass and fight him herself.

I start skating in their direction, protective instinct overriding caution, but Jensen intercepts me. “Not during warm-ups,” he warns, steering me toward the tunnel. “Coach will bench you if you start something now.”

He’s right, frustratingly so. I follow the team off the ice, casting one last glance toward Elliot. She’s fine—still seated, still composed, Sarah now animatedly talking beside her. Whatever Jason said, she’s handling it.

The final minutes before puck drop pass in a flurry of last-minute preparations. Coach’s final instructions. Starting lineup announcements. The familiar rush of adrenaline as we line up in the tunnel, waiting to take the ice for real.

And then we’re out there—bright lights, roaring crowd, the clean sheet of ice awaiting the battle to come. I spot Elliot again during the national anthem, her hand over her heart, eyes fixed on the flag. Not looking at Jason. Not looking at me. Just present in the moment.

The puck drops, and everything else fades away. This is what I’ve trained for all my life—reading plays, anticipating movements, using my body and stick to disrupt the opponent’s plans. For the first period, it’s just hockey, pure and focused.

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