Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
ARTHUR
What the hell have I done?
Elliot blows her nose loudly into a crumpled tissue, the sound jarring in the otherwise quiet cabin of my ridiculously overpriced SUV.
Her tears had stopped before she climbed in, but her nose is still running, and she keeps sniffling like her body hasn’t quite caught up to the fact that it’s not crying anymore.
I could’ve kept walking. I should’ve kept walking. After she literally ran into me I could’ve just brushed it off and gone on with my day. But no. I had to be a jerk. Let the first snarky comment slip out like I was still some rookie asshole with something to prove.
And what did that buy me? Tears.
The full-blown breakdown of a woman I barely know in the middle of a half-empty parking lot.
I hate seeing women cry. Always have. My mom cried enough when I was growing up to cover a hundred lifetimes. Her tears were quiet ones. Always because of my father. And every time she attempted to put on a brave face for me, I swore I’d never be the reason someone cried like that.
So, when Elliot started to sob right in front of me I hated it. Hated the sound of it. Hated the way it made me feel. But mostly, I hated thinking that I was the cause.
“I really appreciate you helping me out,” she says, her voice still thick, but steadier now as she rifles through her oversized purse.
She finds what she’s looking for—a small beige tube—and flips down the visor mirror.
The cap twists with a soft click and out comes a wand, which she dabs lightly beneath each eye with practiced precision.
A creamy line disappears into her skin with a couple of gentle taps. Like magic, the redness fades.
Her movements are smooth, automatic—like someone who’s done this enough times to have it down to muscle memory.
“Do you cry often?”
I thought it was a reasonable question but it makes her snort.
“Sure. All the time. But do I cry in parking lots after my car dies and I’m late picking up my kid? No. Not often.”
Even though I’m keeping my eyes on the road, I can feel her looking at me.
“Do you often offer rides to crying women in your spaceship truck of the future?”
I think about smiling, but I don’t. Nor do I admit that despite having driven this monstrosity for the better part of a year, I still don’t know what half of the buttons on the console do.
“No,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Especially not ones who nearly run me down first.”
Her laugh comes fuller this time, bright and warm and just a little unrestrained.
I steal a glance at her. If I hadn’t just watched tears stream down her face, I’d have a hard time believing she was capable of sadness.
Right now, there’s nothing but light in her expression—mischief sparking in her eyes, lips tilted into a smile that’s entirely too distracting for someone who just had a full-blown meltdown in a parking lot.
I don’t know why but I’m glad I was the one there to see both versions of her. The woman unraveling and the woman who put herself back together.
Truth is, I didn’t offer her a ride because she cried. It was why she cried. She was frantic about being late to pick up her kid. That kind of panic doesn’t come from nowhere. It comes from love. Responsibility. Maybe even a little guilt.
I’ve been the last kid at practice. I lost count of how many times I sat on the concrete steps outside a rink, shivering in my sweat soaked gear, waiting—sometimes for hours—for my dad to sober up enough to remember he was supposed to come get me.
“You’re never going to let that go, eh?” she asks, a smile tugging at her lips.
“Nope.”
“It’s kind of funny when you think about it.”
I turn my head toward her just enough to meet her eyes, letting the weight of my expression say exactly how not funny I find it. “There is nothing funny about attempted vehicular manslaughter.”
She presses her lips together like she’s trying hard not to laugh again, then lifts one shoulder in a playful shrug. “Fair. But it’s a great meet-cute story.”
I frown, my brain catching on the unfamiliar phrase. “What the hell is a meet-cute?”
Her eyes go wide for the briefest moment and then she looks out the windshield, too casual, too fast. “Nothing!” she blurts. “Just…just a silly expression. Not even sure where I heard it.”
The tips of her ears have gone a little pink.
“You’ll want to take the next right,” she adds, all business now.
I do as instructed, changing lanes and trying to focus on the task at hand. But her laugh is still echoing in my head. I inhale and smell a soft, clean scent. Her soap? Shampoo, maybe? Will my truck still smell like her after she’s gone? Do I want it to?
This is exactly why I’ve been avoiding her. She’s a distraction.
I notice a mechanic shop across the street, reminding me of her predicament.
“What are you going to do about your car?”
“Hmm? Oh. Right.” She shrugs but a small line appears between her dark blonde eyebrows. “My friend Jess can probably drive me to work until the end of the week. She’s a police officer and lives nearby. Sam doesn’t have any extracurriculars until Saturday. I’ll figure it out.”
I should let it go. It’s none of my business. But her words from the parking lot keep looping in my mind. Needling me like the persistent ache in my knee.
I’m a single mom with a mountain of debt and a horrible credit score.
“Can’t the boy’s father help you out?”
She doesn’t answer right away. “No. He’s not involved in our lives anymore.”
Does that mean she’s available? Christ, Ace.
“There’s the community centre just up ahead,” she adds.
I flick on my signal and ease into the nearly empty parking lot.
The building is older. Flat-roofed, faded brick, the kind of place that’s probably seen better days…
or decades. A group of people linger by the glass double doors, chatting in small clusters, their breath visible in the late afternoon air.
I pull up near the entrance and spot a boy standing off to the side, glancing at my truck with mild curiosity. He squints at the vehicle, then does a double take when he spots his mother waving from the passenger seat.
Elliot’s scrambling out of the car before I’ve even shifted into park, practically bouncing as she jogs over to him.
“Hi, sweetie.” She beams, wrapping her arms around him like she hasn’t seen him in a month instead of a few hours.
I sit back in my seat and watch. The affection in her voice is unmistakable. I wonder, briefly, if anyone has ever looked at me that way. Loved me like that. I doubt it.
Sam returns her smile, smaller but sincere. There’s a calmness in him, something grounded. When he peers around her to see who’s behind the wheel, his brows inch upward. I nod. He nods back. His eyes are all Elliot’s. Green and curious.
“The bad news is Millie wouldn’t start for me,” she says to him in a grave tone, like she’s delivering news of a fallen comrade.
“She finally died?” he asks, already resigned to the loss.
“No, no. She’s just sleeping. I’ll get her checked out. With a little rest and a lot of—”
“Money,” he cuts in, deadpan.
“Love,” she corrects, “she’ll be good as new.” She reaches out to ruffle his sandy blond hair. He ducks, a beat too slow.
“The good news,” she continues, “is that we have a drive home. Sam, this is Mr. Stetson.”
“It’s good to meet you, Sam,” I say.
He sizes me up with a glance then gives a polite nod. “Likewise. Thank you for the ride.”
How old did Elliot say he was? Twelve? I’ve got players in their twenties who couldn’t carry themselves half as well.
Sam climbs into the back seat just as a voice calls out from the doorway. A woman waves Elliot over. She throws me a quick, dazzling smile before jogging off toward the building. For a second, I forget what I’m supposed to be doing.
“Motherfu—” I catch myself as my eyes flick up to the rearview mirror and meet Sam’s. I clear my throat. “Your mother said you had chess club. You any good?”
He lifts a shoulder, unimpressed. “I’m alright.”
“You play hockey?”
“Nope.”
Alright then. Not exactly a chatterbox. I can live with that. I don’t go out of my way to talk either.
I glance over at Elliot. She’s talking animatedly with the woman who called her away.
“Can I ask you a question?” Sam’s query interrupts the silence I was quite enjoying.
“Sure.” Please let it be something easy. Like, “how tall are you?” or “can my friends and I have tickets for a game?” Something I can answer easily. Please don’t let it be anything about your mother. Has he noticed I’ve been staring at her?
“Have you thought of moving Wagner up to the first line?”
That has me turning around in my seat.
“I get why you brought up Davis when Oliver got injured,” he continues, casually. “He was the obvious choice and he’s done fine. I just wonder if Wagner’s skill over speed approach would bring a better balance to the existing line.”
Holy hell. His assessment is surprisingly insightful. “I wondered the same thing,” I admit. “Ultimately, I went with experience. Davis’ stats speak for themselves. I think Wagner needs more time on the second line to figure it out.”
He nods, contemplatively, but doesn’t seem sold. “That’s fair, I guess.”
I’m about to build a better case for my decision when Elliot arrives. She’s slightly out of breath, like she ran back. Her face flushed, sprigs of her blonde hair have come loose from her ponytail and are framing her face.
She’s so…alive. I forget my train of thought entirely just looking at her.
“Sorry about that!” She gives me another brilliant smile and suddenly I’m a little breathless too. “Jane was just asking me about a possible sleepover with Rhett sometime.” She stares at her son expectantly. “Is that something you’d like to do?”
Sam shrugs. “Sure.”
I notice Elliot’s face fall the slightest bit. “Just sure?” She lowers her voice so it’s just above a whisper. “You’ve never been to a slumber party before.”
Her son rolls his eyes. “Mom. It wouldn’t be a slumber party. We’ll eat pizza, play video games until we’re tired and then crash. It’s no big deal.”
For the look of disbelief on his mom’s face, I would wager it’s a very big deal to her.
I remain quiet as I drive them home, listening to their back and forth. Elliot does most of the talking, peppering her son with a million questions about his day. His answers to all of them are short and to the point, which I respect. He’d do well in the press room after a game. Calm and collected.
They have a nice rapport. It’s clear the kid genuinely seems to like his mom, and it’s easy to see that he is her entire world.
I pull into the driveway of a slightly beat-up grey duplex. The driveway has been plowed somewhat recently by the looks of it. There’s a haphazard path shovelled up to the front porch only wide enough for one person to pass.
“Thank you for the ride, Mr. Stetson,” Sam says as he jumps down from the truck.
“You’re very welcome.”
“I’ll be right in, sweetie. Do me a favour and turn the oven on, Please? I have a big cookie order to bake tonight.”
“Sure thing, Mom.” The boy shuts the truck door and proceeds quickly up the narrow path.
“Cookie order?” I ask, watching Sam open the front door with his key.
“Yeah.” She laughs. “A baker not only in name. I make custom cookie orders from time to time. Mostly birthday parties, a few baby showers. That kind of thing.”
“So you have two jobs?”
“Three, actually. I also teach an aquafitness class twice a week at a local community pool.”
Three jobs.
I’m a single mom with a mountain of debt and a horrible credit score.
I think of my own mother, trying to keep my sister and I fed and clothed on the minuscule “allowance” my father provided her. It’s not that he didn’t have the money, he just didn’t want it wasted on us. Or maybe he thought if he kept her on a short enough leash, she’d be less likely to run away.
“I know you said that Sam’s father isn’t involved…” I can feel her tensing beside me but I keep going. “But he does pay child support, right?”
Elliot doesn’t answer.
“Because even if you have full custody, you’re entitled to it. You shouldn’t have to rely on help from your neighbours or anyone else. Your son is still his obligation.”
I know the second the words are out that it was the wrong thing to say. The full lips I’ve had a hard time looking away from press in a thin line. Her bright eyes narrow, all their usual warmth gone cold.
It’s like her vibrant light that I’d admired minutes ago has been extinguished and it’s all my doing.
“I’m not trying to be an asshole,” I start.
“That’s amazing. You’re a natural.”
I deserved that. “I just think—”
“You know, Coach, I’ve had just about enough of your thoughts and preconceived notions for one day.
Let me tell you some things that I know.
I know it’s okay to ask for help. I do it all the time.
I’m also quick to offer help. Because that’s what people are designed for.
We are not islands. We’re communities. Helping people is human nature.
It’s not weakness, it’s strength.” She undoes her seat belt and grabs her purse.
“I also know my son is not an obligation. He’s not a burden or a chore.
And anyone who thinks of him that way doesn’t get to be in his life, my ex-husband included. ”
I watch her climb out of my truck, feeling worse by the moment. I can’t think of a single thing to say that won’t make this worse.
She’s about to slam her door when she stops herself.
Those big green eyes see too much as they stare at me.
“Thank you for helping me when I needed it. I really do appreciate it. I think it’s a shame that you’re not strong enough to ask for help with your injury.
It seems silly to choose to suffer alone. ”
She closes the door gently and walks toward her home without a backward glance.