Chapter Twenty-One
SCOTTIE
I’m sweating through my shirt at the gym.
Not because I’m pushing myself harder than usual but because the one thing I can’t do right now is sit still and wait. The waiting is torture, and it’s the only thing I can do because everything I care about is out of my hands.
Katerina is meeting with her grandmother right now.
I wipe the sweat off my forehead with the back of my wrist and slam my stick into the synthetic ice pad again, harder than I mean to. The puck ricochets off.
Luka whistles behind me. “Relax, Easton. You’re going to break the damn flooring.”
I turn. He’s leaning against a weight bench, gripping a protein shake he’s barely touched. He looks… tense.
“Katerina is with your grandmother today,” I say. “You’re not with them?”
He snorts. “Do you not understand the concept of a Russian matriarch? No one goes anywhere near my grandmother unless she wants them there. I don’t show up. My father doesn’t show up. You definitely don’t show up unless you are invited.”
“Still,” I mutter, catching another puck. “If she wanted backup, you should be there.”
He shakes his head. “From here on out? This is Katerina’s battlefield. If she wants the marriage, she has to convince our grandmother herself. Trust me, I would be there if I could, but I doubt I would be much help.”
I hate that he’s right.
I hate that I’m here, sweating like a man waiting for a verdict on a crime he didn’t commit, instead of standing beside Kat while she faces the one person whose opinion can make or break her entire future… our future.
I don’t sugarcoat it. “Maxim showed up after opening night.”
Luka’s jaw locks. “I know. My grandmother told me he’d been sniffing around Seattle.”
“He tried to bribe her,” I say. “Half-million-dollar necklace.”
Luka exhales slowly. “That sounds like my father’s handiwork.”
“Yeah,” I say. “And you’re not worried?”
“Of course I am. Are you?” he counters.
I hate that I am.
Hate it so much my grip tightens on my stick.
“I’ve always known she comes from luxury,” I say. “I mean, Jesus, the day I met her she stepped off a private jet wearing a fur wrap like she was visiting from Mount Olympus.” I shake my head. “I know what I’m up against.”
“Do you?” he asks.
Before I can answer, my phone rings.
Mom.
My stomach drops.
“Give me a second,” I mutter, stepping out into the hallway.
I answer. “Hey, Ma.”
Her voice is already tight. The way it gets when she’s trying too hard to stay positive. “Sweetheart, we heard back from the trial.”
My chest clenches. “And?”
“They filled this year's list of patients.”
I close my eyes.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “When’s the next availability?”
“That’s the thing.” She clears her throat. “They have a waiting list, but it’s long, Scottie. Really long. And they… they said because your father’s injury is older, he’s lower on the list. Fresh injuries show better results. Less long-term atrophy of the nerves and muscles. So the priority—”
She can’t finish.
I press my palm to the wall and try to breathe.
“How long until the next one?” I ask.
Her voice cracks. “Two years. Maybe three.”
My throat burns. “Mom—”
“He’s trying to act like it’s fine,” she says. “Like he expected it. But I know him. Scottie, he’s losing hope. He thinks this was the last chance.”
I swallow hard. “It wasn’t. I’ll find something else. Another trial. Another specialist. We’ll find something.”
A beat of silence because we both know the truth: there is no one else.
This was our best chance.
She tries to sound strong again. “Your father wanted me to tell you not to worry. To focus on hockey. To focus on your wife.”
My heart twists. That’s a little easier said than done because right now, I have no control over that either.
“Ma,” I whisper. “I’m sorry. I wish I could do something.”
“I know, sweetheart,” she says gently. “None of this is your fault.”
But it feels like it is.
Like I should be able to fix this. Like I should be able to do something. Like the son of Arnold Easton doesn’t get to sit around while life decides for him.
But this time? There’s nothing I can do. Not about Kat and her family, or about my father’s chances… or any of it.
I hang up and just stand there. For the first time in a while, I feel small and useless. Waiting for someone else’s decision. Waiting for news I can’t influence.
Waiting for the outcomes that matter most in my life, the woman I’m falling in love with, and the father who raised me… and I can’t save either of them.
It feels like a life sentence.
And I’ve never hated waiting more.