Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ELLIOT
My hands fly to my face like I’m watching a slasher flick and the masked man has just stepped out of the shadows with a butcher knife. Honestly, I don’t know which is more terrifying—horror movies or live hockey games.
I have to clap a hand over my mouth when one of my patients, Austin Crawford, gets slammed into the boards hard enough to rattle the glass.
My stomach lurches. I spend all day treating these guys, taping their joints, stretching them out, icing whatever hurts—just to watch them go out there and reenact John Wick on ice.
“Ugh,” I groan into my palm, already mapping out Austin’s next session in my head. Lucky for me, he actually likes ice baths.
“You gonna be okay?” Sam asks, not bothering to tear his eyes from the drama on the ice. He’s completely relaxed like he’s watching a chess match.
“Of course,” I mutter. “Just wondering how much time Austin’s going to need on my table tomorrow.” I know hockey is brutal. If it wasn’t, half the team wouldn’t need me around. This is the job: they smash each other to pieces, and I try to put them back together.
The horn sounds to mark the end of the first period, and Sam sits up straighter, taking in the size of the crowd and the sea of jerseys surrounding us. His smile is easy. He smiles more often these days. “These are great seats.”
He’s not wrong. We’re only a couple rows back from the Otters’ bench, close enough to see the scuffs on their helmets. It’s much louder than when we’re tucked away in one of the private boxes Ben usually arranges. Down here, you don’t just watch the game, you live it.
And the best part? It was free. Public Relations sent me an email earlier this week with two tickets attached. “Just another perk of being on the payroll, I guess.”
As the Otters make their way toward the locker room, my gaze catches on Arthur.
He stands out immediately, a solid figure in a perfectly cut black suit amid the blur of green jerseys.
Where the players are flushed and sweat-slicked, he’s composed, shoulders squared, exuding that quiet authority he always maintains.
He doesn’t need to shout to command respect.
Just a nod, a firm hand on a shoulder, a few low words and his players fall in line.
He moves with confidence, the kind that makes you want to keep your eyes on him. Even when the game was in full chaos, he had that same steady presence, as if nothing could shake him.
When the last player disappears down the tunnel, Arthur lifts his head. His eyes sweep the crowd once before locking onto mine like he’d known exactly where I was sitting. The air leaves my lungs in a rush.
I smile tentatively at him as his eyes linger on me, unreadable but sharp. His gaze flicks to my mouth. One beat. Two. My skin prickles as if he’d actually touched me. By the time his eyes return to mine, my lips feel too warm, too exposed, like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t.
Arthur dips his chin in that subtle nod of his, but this time, there’s no edge to it. No scowl shadowing his face. If anything, I swear there’s a hint of something softer. I almost feel like he’s glad I’m here.
“Can I get some popcorn?” Sam asks, finally breaking our staring contest. His green eyes are hopeful, already flicking up the stairs toward the concession stands.
“Of course, sweetie.” I reach for the belt bag strapped across my chest, fingers sliding over the zipper until I find the twenty-dollar bill I tucked there earlier.
“I have money, Mom.” Sam pats my leg as he stands, lanky and all elbows, his Otters hoodie hanging loose on his narrow frame.
I force a smile, but inside, the reminder stings.
I follow a careful cash budget. I’ve had to, in order to save for Sam’s education while also paying down Shawn’s mountain of high-interest debt.
Every dollar has been stretched, accounted for, and counted twice.
It hasn’t been easy—few things in my life have been.
But with obsessive planning, strategic grocery runs, and the occasional bit of luck, I’ve managed to keep us afloat.
It hurts my heart when Sam offers to cover things.
He’s only twelve, but he’s always trying to lighten the load I’m carrying.
He’s received a good chunk of money from chess tournament wins.
More recently, he’s been walking Bruno, our elderly neighbour’s oversized golden retriever, while the man recovers from his knee replacement surgery.
Sam always comes home grinning, his cheeks pink from the cold with a crumpled bill or two folded into his palm.
I’m proud of him and all his accomplishments. But sometimes I wish he’d spend his money on silly kids stuff like candy and video games, instead of trying to pay for his own essentials like new winter boots and clothes.
Things I should be providing for him.
“Do you want anything at the canteen?” he asks, his voice cracking just a little, that reminder he’s caught somewhere between a boy and a young man.
I shake my head. “No, thank you, I’m good.” My bag is stacked with snacks, as always. There’s no way I’m going to pay eight dollars for a bag of Sour Patch Kids when the same size costs two at the grocery store. But I can’t smuggle in hot, buttery popcorn, and that’s always been Sam’s favourite.
He sighs, then begrudgingly takes the bill from me, tucking it into the pocket of his hoodie. He’s about to step into the aisle when a concessions employee suddenly appears in front of us.
“Hi!” the young man says, his smile quick and nervous. He looks barely older than Sam—sixteen, maybe seventeen. The nametag on his uniform reads Conner. “Are you Elliot and Sam?”
“That’s us.”
“I’ve got some complimentary snacks and beverages for you.”
I glance down at the tray he’s carrying, stacked high with paper bags and sweating cups.
My mouth waters instantly as the smells hit—salty, buttered popcorn, soft-baked pretzels warm enough to fog their wax paper sleeves, and hot dogs.
My stomach grumbles. I swear, a moment ago I wasn’t even hungry.
“Oh…that’s not necessary,” I say quickly, still blinking at the bounty. “Wait—did Ben Michaels send these?” The last time we came to a game with Ben’s girlfriend, Maddy, we sat in a private box with its own snack bar.
Conner shakes his head, his greasy hair falling across his acne-scarred forehead. His hands are pink from carrying the heavy tray in front of him. “Not sure, ma’am. I was just instructed to load up a cart and come to your seats.”
Sam’s eyes flick to mine waiting for me to give the go ahead. His restraint is almost comical.
The concession kid shifts under the weight of the tray, and I finally cave.
“Thank you,” I tell him with a smile. “This was really nice of…whoever did this.”
Sam doesn’t need to be told twice. He snatches up a red-and-white striped bag of popcorn, a large drink, and a pack of Twizzlers in one smooth move. When he thanks Conner, he’s already tearing into the wrapper with his teeth.
I pick more slowly, choosing a soft pretzel in a paper sleeve and a can of lime sparkling water.
Remembering the twenty-dollar bill in my hand, I offer it to him. “Here. Thank you for hauling all this.”
He shakes his head firmly, though his ears flush pink. “Thank you, ma’am, but gratuities are included. If you need anything else, just come find me at the Fan Services counter. Enjoy the game!”
With a polite nod, he starts to climb the stairs, leaving behind a delighted twelve-year-old boy.
I plop back in my seat, still in shock over the entire situation. A few people are peering over at us curiously, like they’re wondering who we are and why we’re getting special treatment.
“Maybe it’s because I work for the team now?” I wonder, though my voice sounds doubtful even to me.
“Maybe.” Sam doesn’t sound convinced either. He’s half-distracted, digging through his popcorn searching out the extra buttery pieces.
“Or maybe it was Ben?” I say slowly, turning the idea over in my head. “If it was him, I’m going to have to talk to him. It’s thoughtful, of course, but too much.”
Sam shrugs, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “My bet is on Mr. Stetson,” he says around a mouthful of popcorn.
I rear back, brows lifting. “Why would you think that?”
“He kept looking up at us during the first period.”
“He did? I didn’t notice.”
“Of course you didn’t,” Sam smirks, scattering a few stray kernels onto his hoodie. “You were covering your eyes half the time.”
I nudge him with my elbow, sending a few more popcorn kernels tumbling. He grins, unbothered, licking salt off his fingers.
“I have two theories,” he goes on, his tone far too serious for someone with butter on their chin. “The first is that this might be his way of apologizing for not following your physio plan.”
Could he be right? Did my opinion matter enough to Arthur Stetson that he’d arrange free tickets and a loaded cart of food just to smooth things over? The thought prickles uncomfortably in my chest.
“If that’s true—and I’m not saying it is—but if it is, it’s not necessary. He said he was sorry, and I accepted his apology.” I take a sip of sparkling water. “I may have been disappointed, but not surprised. People are stubborn, set in their ways. Change might be inevitable, but it’s never easy.”
Sam wipes his hands on his jeans and stands up, setting his drink carefully on the floor. “I’m going to run to the washroom before the second period starts.” He passes me his popcorn, and suddenly my lap is a precarious tower of snacks.
“Okay, sweetie.” I haven’t even touched my pretzel, and now I’m balancing soda, popcorn, and candy in my lap. “Wait!”
He retraces his steps until he’s back at my side. “Yeah?”
“What was your second theory?”
“Ohhh.” He drags a hand through his hair, a gesture so Ben Michaels coded it makes me bite back a smile. “Just that he really likes you. Be right back!”
Before I can respond, he’s already jogging up the arena steps, leaving me with too many snacks and even more questions.