Page 4 of Across the Boards

I smiled to myself. Four years ago, she’d been off-limits—my captain’s wife, bound to a man who didn’t seem to value the mind behind those expressive eyes. Now she was free. Now I was her neighbor. Now there was possibility.

I just had to convince her that not all hockey players were like Jason Martinez.

1

ELLIOT

Islept on my couch last night. Not because of nightmares or some deep psychological trauma, but because I fell asleep during an episode of “The Great British Bake Off” with a half-empty glass of wine balanced precariously on the arm of the couch. In my defense, it’s the bread episode. Nothing knocks me out faster than watching people stare anxiously at rising dough.

The sound that wakes me isn’t my alarm but a crash from next door, followed by what’s unmistakably a hockey stick hitting hardwood floors. A muffled “Sorry!” filters through our shared wall right before I hear the front door only a few feet from mine slam shut.

I pull my fuzzy throw blanket over my head. Brody Carter. First line, left defense, professional hockey player. And the bane of my existence for exactly three weeks and two days.

“It’s not enough that I used to be married to one,” I mumble into my blanket fort. “Now I have to live next to one.”

Five years ago, I would never have imagined this would be my life. Back then, I was Elliot Martinez, wife of Phoenix hockey star Jason Martinez. I had meticulously crafted the perfect image of a supportive NHL wife—attending every home game, hosting team dinners, smiling for photos while subtly fading into the background as Jason commanded the spotlight. It was exhausting, this constant performance of the perfect hockey marriage.

Especially when my husband made it abundantly clear that I was failing at it.

“You’re so difficult, Ellie,” he’d say, his voice laced with that calculated disappointment that always made me shrink. “Most wives would be grateful to be in your position.”

I believed him then. Believed I was the problem—too independent, too intellectual, too reluctant to fully embrace hockey wife culture. Too frigid, as he eventually called me during one particularly cruel argument.

Then came the texts. Messages from a woman named Amber, an ice girl for the team. Then more messages from others. Three years ago, I’d finally gathered the courage to leave him, enduring a public divorce that painted me as the cold, demanding wife who couldn’t keep NHL star Jason Martinez happy.

I shake off the memories and reach for my phone, which is buzzing with an incoming text.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!! Coffee in 30? I have gossip and pastries!

I groan, squinting at the time. 7:30 AM. Only Sarah Harrington, Tommy’s wife, and my only remaining link to the hockey world, would consider this a reasonable hour for birthday celebrations. But the pastries...

Coffee maker warming up. Don’t be late with those pastries.

I sigh, dragging myself off the couch. Might as well start the coffee if I’m going to be awake anyway.

Standing at my kitchen counter, I measure coffee beans with the mindset of someone who recognizes that caffeine is not a luxury but a necessity. Sure, I could buy one of those fully automated machines, but this ritual has been my morning anchor for almost a decade.

The doorbell rings just as I finish steaming the milk. Sarah never could wait the full thirty minutes.

“You’re early,” I call as I pull open the door. But instead of my best friend holding promised pastries, I find myself face-to-chest with a very shirtless, very sweaty Brody Carter.

“Morning, neighbor-lady!” His smile is criminally bright for this hour. “Sorry to bother you, but I locked myself out after my run.”

My eyes betray me, traveling from his face down to—nope. I force my gaze back up to his face, ignoring the tattoo snaking around his shoulder that’s practically begging to be traced.

“And this is my problem because...?” I raise an eyebrow, clutching my coffee mug like a shield.

“Because you’re the only other person awake?” His sheepish grin is infuriatingly charming. “And I know you have coffee.”

“How do you know I have coffee?”

“I can smell it.” He leans forward slightly. “And it smells incredible. Way better than whatever my machine makes.”

I narrow my eyes. “So you want to use my phone? To call a locksmith?”

“Actually...” He runs a hand through his damp hair. “I was hoping I could use your patio to climb over to mine? The fence between them is low enough that I could?—”

“You want to parkour your way into your own house? At 7:45 in the morning?”

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