Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
ARTHUR
There are weeks that go quickly when you’re travelling with the team. The flights, the bus rides, the games, the press, all blurs together like a movie you’re watching of someone else’s life.
Then there are weeks that drag like fingernails down a mile-long blackboard. Endless. Excruciating. Torture.
This week, unfortunately, was the latter.
It should have been a good week. Hell, it was a good week. We clinched our playoff spot, just like I knew we would. Even if we tank every remaining regular season game—and we won’t—we’ve got enough points to move forward.
As if that wasn’t sweet enough, my father didn’t call me once. Five whole days of silence. I googled him midweek just to make sure he hadn’t dropped dead and no one told me. Nope, still alive. Just blissfully uninterested in me. A miracle.
So yeah. Everything’s great. Except not.
Because even with everything going right, I wanted nothing more than to be back in Ottawa. Back where I could corner Elliot and actually talk about what happened Friday. Or more accurately…what didn’t happen. And what should happen next.
Now that I know she’s interested in me, I’ve decided I’m going to pursue it. Yes, it’s a risk. Yes, it could end in disaster. But as Noah oh-so-helpfully pointed out, it could also end with me being happy. And wouldn’t that be a novelty.
Obviously, I couldn’t have that conversation last week at her place, when she was fragile over Sam’s first sleepover. If I’d let her kiss me in that moment, she might’ve regretted it later—and I couldn’t live with that. Not when the stakes feel this high.
No. This is a clear-head decision. No blurred lines, no alcohol, no late-night emotions. Which is why I show up at the treatment room first thing Thursday morning armed with two coffees, a breakfast sandwich, and a copy of the Otters’ fraternization policy tucked into my jacket pocket.
Who says romance is dead?
The room is quiet when I step inside, the smell of antiseptic and eucalyptus hanging faintly in the air. The lights are on, and I see Elliot’s station already prepped for her first patient. Bandages are neatly stacked, resistance bands lined up like soldiers.
Then she appears.
Out of the supply closet, balancing a precarious armload of physio tape.
She looks…impossibly good for someone wearing sweats.
Her blonde hair is pulled into a lopsided braid, pieces escaping to frame her face in a way that feels reckless and intimate.
The pink scrunchie in her hair stands out against her black Otters track suit.
Her eyes widen when she spots me, and she makes a tiny squeak that lodges itself under my ribs. Before I can even savour it, every single roll of tape tumbles from her arms, scattering like bowling pins across the floor.
“Good morning,” I say, after rehearsing about fifty better openings all week. Brilliant. Truly Shakespearean.
“Good morning,” she echoes, cheeks pink as she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and crouches to gather the mess.
I bend to help, but by the time I’ve maneuvered my too-large frame into a crouch and stretched for a single roll, she’s already collected the rest and stacked them neatly at her station. The picture of professionalism.
Except for the part where she squeaked at the sight of me.
She keeps her back turned, busying herself with the tape like it might explode if she doesn’t arrange it just right. And me? I stand there, holding a lukewarm breakfast sandwich, wondering if maybe she’s as rattled by me as I am by her.
“Thank you.” She accepts the tape I hold out and continues fussing with the already perfectly stacked rolls.
I hold out the coffee and the bakery bag next. The coffee smells faintly of burned caramel. “These are for you.” When she stares at the offering, confused, I add, “You said you don’t have time for breakfast most mornings.”
Her eyes finally lift. For a moment everything else drops away and I see her full-on. It’s not the same nervousness that came before she almost kissed me on Friday. This is the look I remember from the day she barged into my office expecting bad news.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask, setting the sandwich and coffee on the counter.
Her throat moves. “Like what?”
“Like you’re afraid you’re about to lose your job.”
She freezes. “Am I going to lose my job?”
Jesus. “No.” I can’t help the sharpness in my voice; the thought is ridiculous. “Of course not. The Otters HR policy doesn’t prohibit relationships between employees.”
Her shoulders sag as if I’ve removed a weight, then draw tight again. “The what?”
I pull the offending little pamphlet from my jacket and spread it open between us on the counter.
The paper crumpled from how many times I’ve folded and unfolded it.
“Policy HR-095,” I read, even though I have it memorized.
“Section one: Employees may pursue personal or romantic relationships provided they don’t, one, interfere with job performance or the work environment; two, create conflicts of interest or appearances of favouritism; and three, involve direct reporting or supervisory relationships. ”
She blinks, slowly. I push the paper toward her, and when she takes it, her fingers brush mine—brief, electric, and I nearly forget how to breathe.
“But…you and I are not in a relationship,” she says, voice small, cheeks flushing the colour of an apple.
“Not yet,” I say, and the words feel impossibly honest when they leave my mouth. “But we’re going to be.”
“We are?” She’s still on edge.
“Elliot.” I make myself lower my voice, softer than my usual bark. “You wanted to kiss me on Friday.”
Her head snaps toward me, eyes sparking. “Even if I did, as I recall, you didn’t want to kiss me.” The words hiss out.
I stare at her like she’s speaking a foreign language. “I don’t understand how you came to that conclusion.”
She gives a short, incredulous laugh that’s somehow worse than if she’d shouted, then sweeps the rolls of tape into her arms like she’s gathering ammunition. Without looking at me, she sidesteps past and heads for the row of cupboards on the next wall.
“Well,” she says in a voice far too calm to be natural, “you told me, ‘This can’t happen,’ and then ran out of the room like it was on fire.” She yanks open the upper cupboard door with more force than necessary.
“I said, ‘Not like this.’”
“And then you ran.”
“With my knee?” My attempt at humour sneaks in, desperate to soften the moment. “You’re a great physio, Elliot, but you’re not a miracle worker.”
The line falls flat. She doesn’t even flinch in acknowledgement. Instead, she hikes one knee onto the counter like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“What the hell are you doing?” I demand.
“Planting a vegetable garden,” she deadpans, already hauling herself up by the cabinets. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
“Come down from there.”
Her braid slips forward over her shoulder as she stands, one hand gripping the shelving for balance. She looks far too pleased with herself. “We’re not all skyscrapers, Coach. Some of us need a little help reaching the top shelf. And this tape isn’t going to put itself away.”
I move closer, pulse ticking in my jaw. “I’m serious, Elliot. I don’t want you to fall.”
“I’m not going to fall.”
She’s standing on a narrow strip of countertop in soft-soled shoes, stubborn as hell, her braid swinging as she shifts another stack of tape into place. My hands itch to steady her, but I’m scared she’d bristle at the touch.
“Come down,” I order.
“Careful.” She doesn’t even look at me, voice dripping with mock warning. “Don’t let HR hear you. Pretty sure you’re interfering with my job performance and work environment.”
“Elliot.” The warning in my voice is unmistakable.
She tips her head down, mimics me with perfect mock-gravity. “Arthur.”
I grit my teeth, torn between throttling her and kissing her senseless, preferably after she’s back on solid ground.
I chew the inside of my cheek as she stretches to stack the last roll of tape on the top shelf. Every second she stays up there grates on my nerves. The thought of her being unsafe pisses me off, but the thought of her actually falling terrifies me in a way I don’t care to unpack.
Finally, she turns her head, a smug little glint in her eye. “There. All finished and no harm—”
It happens too fast to stop. Her right shoe catches on her left, and suddenly she’s twisting, losing balance. My pulse slams into overdrive.
Two strides and I’ve got her, my hands gripping her waist before gravity can take her to the unforgiving tile floor. The collision of her body against mine nearly drives the air from my lungs. Her arms loop around my neck instinctively, clutching, anchoring herself to me.
Momentum carries us until her back bumps the cupboard. In the next breath, she’s sitting on the counter she was standing on seconds ago, my body wedged between her thighs, holding her there.
We’re both breathing hard, the sound loud in the hush of the treatment room. My chest rises and falls against hers. Her pupils widen and her gaze flicks unmistakably to my mouth.
My restraint snaps like a brittle twig and I crush my mouth to hers.