Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ARTHUR
When I was ten years old, I missed what should have been the game-winning goal.
It wasn’t a playoff final, not even a tournament—just a regular Saturday afternoon game in a drafty community rink.
Low stakes, nothing riding on it but bragging rights at school.
Still, when the puck slid harmlessly past my stick, I felt as if the weight of the entire arena had dropped on my shoulders.
I’d let down my coaches, my teammates, and every parent stamping their boots in the stands.
I can still see the look my coach gave me afterward. He’d forced a smile, going out of his way to be kind, but I wasn’t fooled. His eyes gave him away, full of the disappointment he didn’t want to voice.
It’s the same look Elliot is giving me now.
“You didn’t do the exercises.” Her tone is flat, not a question. A conclusion.
I blink at her. How the hell does she know? Has she been watching me this past week somehow? Lurking in dark corners, trailing me from city to city, spying on me when I think I’m alone?
God, I hope not. If she had, she’d have seen things I’d rather not explain.
Like the times in the shower when I pressed my forearm against the tile and worked my shaft raw, imagining her beside me, damp hair slicked to her skin, water running down every curve.
I’d come undone uttering her name like a curse.
A week ago, when I left her house after that first session, I’d fully intended to stick with the program.
Monday morning, I made it halfway through the routine before the bad knee protested, sharp pain that told me not to push it.
Tuesday afternoon we flew into Pittsburgh, and by the time I’d sat through meetings with my coaching staff, the day was gone.
Wednesday was worse. Two of my players threw down in an on-ice brawl that made the highlight reels for all the wrong reasons.
There were fines, suspensions, and press to deal with.
Thursday morning my father called, sounding downright gleeful as he pointed out what a disaster it was.
By then I’d given up. I’d missed too many days, and a half-hearted effort on Monday didn’t count for much when everything after that had gone to hell. Still. She had to be bluffing. How could she possibly know I’d skipped them?
But as I stand here now, a week later, in the living room she’s carefully cleared of furniture to make space for me, it’s obvious she does know. Disappointment shadows her face, edged with a trace of hurt.
“I did some of them,” I offer, which is technically true. A dozen repetitions of my exercises six days ago. Nowhere near what she expects. But if she’s waiting for me to hang my head and apologize, she’d better get comfortable.
I’ve got a big job, people who depend on me, a schedule that eats me alive most weeks. And let’s be clear: I’m paying her. Not the other way around. If I don’t have time to do her exercises, she still gets her money. Elliot might run these sessions, but I’m still running the show.
So I wait. Ready for the guilt trip. Ready for her lecture.
But she doesn’t speak. She just rocks back on her heels, lips caught between her teeth, calculating. Waiting me out.
Her silence unnerves me.
A shrill timer starts to ring in the other room.
“Here.” She doesn’t look at me as she hands me a resistance band. “Start stretching with this while I take my cookies out of the oven. I’ll be right back.”
I watch her walk away, unable to stop myself from admiring the way her yoga pants hug her round ass.
Save it for your next shower, Ace.
“Hi, Mr. Stetson.”
Sam seems to have materialized out of thin air, scaring the life out of me.
“Jesus, kid. You startled me.”
“Sorry.” He leans against the doorframe holding what looks like a thick comic book in his hands. “Here for another session?”
“I am. Your mom just had to take some cookies out of the oven.”
“Yeah.” He nods. “I wanted to make sure she heard the timer.”
I return the nod wondering why I suddenly feel so exposed. I’ve got thirty years and a foot and a half of height on this kid. Why do I always feel intimidated in his presence? It doesn’t help that I’m in sweats and a T-shirt, not my usual armour of a well-tailored suit.
“The Coles got themselves in a lot of trouble last week.” I’m not surprised he saw the coverage of the brawl.
“They certainly did,” I agree, shaking my head. Cole Cassidy and Cole Sharkey are our rookies this season. They’re decent kids, but still a bit wet behind the ears. The media loves them and the ride or die bond they’ve formed. They are known throughout the league as “The Coles.”
Sam looks around the corner quickly before turning back to me. “What did Sharkey say to that Pittsburgh defenceman? I’m terrible at reading lips and Ben wouldn’t tell me.”
“Nothing that I can repeat in front of a minor.” Hell, what my forward said to the other player is almost foul enough to make a heartless geezer like me blush.
“Figured. How’s the session going?” Sam strikes me as an observant kid, and I can tell from the way he asks the question he already knows the answer.
“Fine,” I lie, feeling bad immediately. Lying to the child, lying to his mother. Maybe I can find some orphans or widows to lie to on the way home. “I had a busy week. Didn’t exactly follow your mom’s plan as closely as I should have.”
He nods, almost sage-like. “Been there. One great thing about my mom? She never expects you to be perfect. She just expects you to try.”
“That right?”
“Yep. When I mess up, I just say I’m sorry and that I’ll try harder next time.”
“Interesting. Anything else I should know about your mom?”
He thinks about this. “She’s allergic to pollen. So don’t buy her flowers. Almost every kind makes her sneeze.”
It’s not like I was planning on buying Elliot flowers, but I store the information away anyway.
“It makes her sad, because she loves flowers. Sometimes she buys them and just accepts the rapid-fire sneezing.” A conspiratorial smile stretches across his face. “But her sneezes are hilarious. She sounds like a cartoon character. So her sneezing fits usually trigger laugh attacks.”
I actually chuckle at that, the sound raw and unfamiliar to my own ears. Sam laughs too.
“What’s so funny?” Elliot’s eyebrows are raised as she looks between her son and me, both still shaking a little with laughter.
“Hockey,” Sam answers, and I silently corroborate his story with a nod.
His mom’s gaze shoots to me. “Please tell me you did not tell him what Cole One said to that poor Pittsburgh player.”
I arch a brow at her. “Cole One?”
It’s Sam who answers. “She calls them Cole One and Cole Two because they remind her of the Things in The Cat in the Hat.”
“Ah. I haven’t read that one.”
“Seriously?” Sam asks. “Mom knows it by heart.”
“Only because you begged me to read it every night for years.” Her hand playfully ruffles his hair.
He rolls his eyes before changing the subject. “Can I have a cookie?”
“The fresh ones aren’t iced yet, but there are a few leftovers from the baby shower order from yesterday.”
“Sweet,” he says, stepping out of her reach. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Stetson.”
“You too, kid.”
Sam disappears down the hallway, leaving Elliot and I once again alone. The irritable tension from earlier seems to be gone as well. Now we’re just two people who don’t quite know what to say to one another.
“He seems like a great kid,” I tell her, meaning it.
She smiles warmly at that. “I think he’s the best kid ever. But I might be slightly biased.”
“Maybe a bit.”
“I do wish he had more structure. He goes to chess club twice a week, but he’s never shown much interest in organized sports.
He’s made some great friends over the last year.
And Ben spends time with him whenever he can.
I’ve looked into some youth volunteer programs, but he’s too young for most of them.
” She shrugs. “Sometimes I feel like he spends too much time alone. But before I know it, he’ll have a job. And probably a really bad moustache.”
I laugh again, and it sounds just as rusty as before. “You’ve got a few years before all that.”
“We’ll see.” Her tone is light but there’s a hint of sadness threaded through it. I don’t like when this woman is sad.
“Listen.” My voice comes out rough, so I clear my throat and try again. “I’m sorry I didn’t make time for the exercises this week. I’m used to giving orders, not following them. But I’ll work harder. I’ll do better this week.”
She doesn’t respond right away. Instead, she studies my face in silence, her expression pensive. The seconds stretch long enough that unease prickles at the back of my neck. Did she not hear me? Did I say the wrong thing? Her gaze holds me pinned in place.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, she nods.
Her eyes catch the living room light and it almost looks like they’re sparkling.
“Change is hard,” she says softly. “Keep trying, and don’t get discouraged when you fall short of your expectations.
Just do the next right thing. You owe it to yourself. ”
Her voice is steady and warm in a way that catches me off guard. There’s no edge, no disappointment, no trace of the judgement I’d braced myself for. Just patience. Kindness. Faith I don’t think I deserve.
I swallow against the sudden tightness in my throat and manage a small nod. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I do owe it to myself. And maybe, though I don’t dare say it out loud, I owe it to her too.