Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
ARTHUR
I pull into Elliot’s duplex fifteen minutes before our session.
I left expecting heavier traffic, but the streets were clear and I made it in record time.
If this were an office or a gym, I could wait in the parking lot until the exact minute and no one would care.
But this isn’t a commercial building. This is her home.
Sitting in the driveway feels intrusive, like lurking. Or stalking.
You’ve been stalking her all week. Why stop now?
No, I haven’t. Not really. Did I type her name into a search bar, hoping to find some trace of her online?
Yes. But that hardly counts as stalking.
I’m about to walk into her house, into her space.
I wanted to be sure she wasn’t secretly selling miracle oils or pushing some pyramid scheme. It felt like due diligence on my part.
The search hadn’t been much help anyway.
All I’d managed to find was a private Instagram profile.
The profile picture looked a decade old.
A younger Elliot, cheeks pressed against a toddler who had the same colouring as her but wore a comically serious expression.
Sam, no doubt. Even in the too-small circular picture, the happiness on her face in that photo had stopped me cold.
I brace myself against the winter air before opening the car door. I angle my body so I can swing my good leg out first, avoiding putting my weight on the bad one. My boots crunch lightly against the salted driveway as I straighten up and shut the door behind me.
The walkway is perfectly clear today, freshly shovelled with a thin dusting of salt scattered evenly across the cement.
For a moment I wonder if she did it for me.
The thought pleases and irritates me in equal measure.
Pleased, because it would mean she thought of me.
Irritated, because the last thing I want is to create more work for her.
My role here is supposed to be lightening her load, not adding to it.
I make my way slowly up the path, and the memory of her voice on the phone drifts back.
She hadn’t expected me to be the one calling.
She’d sounded so upset, like she’d been crying.
I can’t shake the sound, or the sting of knowing she’s been shedding tears again.
And I hate that. I hate that she’s hurting.
And I hate that I can’t seem to stop thinking about her.
I’m just about to knock when the sound of tires crunching over ice makes me pause. A second vehicle pulls into the driveway, and my star defenceman and new team captain steps out with an easy grin.
“Hey, Coach!” Ben Michaels calls, his breath puffing white in the cold, dimples flashing.
“Michaels,” I answer, keeping my voice level while I fight back my surprise.
What the hell is he doing here? I vaguely remember he was the one who suggested Elliot for the position with the team, but whatever I imagined their connection was, I never thought it extended to casual drop-ins at her house.
Ben’s girlfriend, Madelyn, rounds the front of the car. Her bright red hair sticks out beneath a knitted green toque, and she’s bundled in heavy ski gear. Both of them are dressed like they’re heading into a snowstorm.
Ben strides toward me like a friendly neighbourhood dog. “How’s it going? Ready for your first session?”
My eyes narrow on instinct. I never told Elliot to keep my business private, but I sure as hell didn’t expect her to share details about these sessions with one of my players. My jaw tightens. If she told Ben, who else knows?
Before the silence can stretch too long, Madelyn steps in with an apologetic smile. “Sam mentioned this morning that you’d be here. We were making plans to take him sledding.”
“You know Sam?” The words slip out sharper than I intend. For a second I wonder if he’s one of Madelyn’s students, before remembering she works for a charitable foundation. My goaltender, Foster James, is the one dating a school teacher. Ben’s sister, in fact.
“I’m his Big Buddy,” Ben answers easily.
The pieces lock into place. I know the program.
It finds mentors for kids who need someone steady in their lives.
Elliot, a single mother working long hours to keep afloat, would absolutely qualify.
I’ve only ever heard good things about Big Buddies.
I definitely could have benefited from something like that as a kid.
The door opens behind us and a bright eyed Sam stands in the doorway. He’s dressed in similar attire as Ben and Madelyn and looks ready for the elements.
“Hello, Mr. Stetson.” Sam nods at me with the kind of formality I’m not expecting from a child.
“Hey,” Ben pipes up from behind me, sounding almost offended. “What’s with the Mister?”
“Just being respectful,” Sam replies with a lazy shrug. “He’s an adult.”
“Dude, so am I.”
“In age, sure. But in maturity…” Sam lets the words trail off.
“I’m very mature,” Ben argues, puffing up his chest in indignation. “Coach thinks so too. Tell him,” he urges me. “Tell him that’s why you made me captain.”
I glance between the boy and my defenceman, momentarily lost in the ease of their banter. I am not used to being pulled into random conversations, let alone ones filled with such teasing familiarity. Finally, I clear my throat and direct my words at Sam. “I have no idea what he’s talking about.”
Madelyn laughs outright, Ben groans in mock outrage, and Sam’s lips curl into a smile.
I feel like I’ve won a prize I didn’t know I was competing for.
I have never cared much about being liked, yet for reasons I do not want to examine too closely, Sam smiling at me feels significant, like I just earned something.
“My mom’s on her way downstairs,” Sam says, walking past me. “She said to make yourself at home.”
I step tentatively into the entryway, half wondering if I am breaking some rule by being here. “I’m not going to be tackled by a guard dog or anything, am I?”
For the briefest second, Sam’s face falters. The flicker of disappointment is small but noticeable. His tone is quieter when he answers. “The landlord doesn’t allow pets.”
“Maybe we can stop by Foster and Beth’s place after sledding,” Ben offers quickly, as if he senses the boy’s mood shift and wants to fix it. “You’re Cujo’s favourite—after me, of course.”
“He only likes you because you sneak him extra treats,” Madelyn teases, rolling her eyes.
“All the more reason to do it,” Ben counters with a grin. He slings an arm around her as they move toward the door. “We’ll see you later, Coach.”
“Have fun,” I tell them. The words are supposed to sound relaxed, but like everything that comes out of my mouth, it sounds like a command.
“You too!” Ben shoots back, winking when Sam isn’t looking. Madelyn swats him on the arm, but he only laughs, dragging her closer and planting a kiss on her flushed cheek.
They make an easy picture, the two of them, bundled against the cold. I’ve heard the story that they dated as teenagers before Ben left for the NHL, only to find their way back to each other in their thirties.
I watch as Ben escorts her around to her side of the car. It does not look like an obligation for him. It’s like he simply wants to stay near her for as long as possible.
I’ve never really had relationships because I never made room for them. Over the years it’s been one-night stands or casual things that ended before they could ask anything of me.
I close the door, noticing the doorknob is loose. The screws probably need to be tightened. I slip out of my boots, holding onto the wall for extra balance, not wanting to wobble on my bad knee.
The first thing I notice when I step farther inside the house is the smell. It smells like cookies. Elliot mentioned she was teaching a fitness class this morning. Had she made cookies before class? And are they the kind of cookies a mom makes for her son? Or cookies she’s making for extra cash?
I briefly wonder if I could convince her to accept more than the inflated rate I’m already paying her. I doubt it. I understand why she wouldn’t. I don’t know her that well, but I can tell that she’s headstrong. What I don’t know is why I care so much.
I step farther into what appears to be a living room. There’s a couch, a coffee table, and two small end tables. None of them match. There are picture frames scattered all around the room and I go in for a closer look, picking up a frame from the closest table.
It’s a baby picture of Sam. At least, I assume it’s Sam, given the child has the same green eyes. I have no idea how old he would be in the picture. He doesn’t have any hair on his massive head.
“Hey.”
Her voice carries softly from the staircase.
I look up, and for a moment I simply forget to breathe.
Elliot descends in a faded The Tragically Hip T-shirt and dark leggings, her bare feet silent on the steps.
Damp hair clings to her shoulders as she works at it with a towel, strands catching on her fingers when she brushes them behind her ears.
She’s letting me see her dressed down and vulnerable and that is enough to make me lightheaded.
An ache starts in my chest. It intensifies the closer she gets, stretching out and taking over. I feel like I’ve just been given a glimpse at something I’ve never had, never even knew existed. But now that I have, I think I want it. No. I might need it.
It’s not just that she’s beautiful; though, good God, she is. So beautiful it’s hard to look directly at her. Her body is strong and soft at the same time. She stands straight, perfect posture even while completely relaxed. Have I ever noticed a person’s posture before?
“Sorry,” she says with a small laugh. “I thought I had enough time to shower. I tell myself I’ll be quick, but my mind wanders, and five minutes turns into twenty-five.”
I try not to think about Elliot in the shower.
Try not to imagine if she just stood there for the entire time, or if her hands, like her mind, wandered too.
Roaming her naked body, like the water droplets running off her as she washed herself from head to toe and everywhere in between. Did she linger on any specific parts?
I clear my throat, ordering myself to get a grip. “It’s fine. I’m early.”
Laughter lights up those pretty eyes. “An eager beaver! I like that. Ready to sweat?”
This woman is going to be the death of me. I scold the horny teenage boy currently living in my head and manage a grunt of approval.