16. Bethany
Chapter sixteen
Bethany
Ipush through the arena doors with the revised contractor schedule clutched to my chest.
I only needed to drop the schedule at Grant’s office. Mom needed to confirm a few details with Grant, so we came together. The game starting twenty minutes later is either convenient timing or very poor planning on my part.
Grant gave us two tickets. "I got these for you girls. Go. It'll be fun."
Leaving them unused would be wasteful.
That is the explanation I settle on as Mom and I make our way toward the seats, drinks in hand.
Skates carve and scrape against the ice. My eyes go straight to Timothy, a fact I choose not to examine right now, or possibly ever.
He is not even doing anything remarkable. Just gliding, positioning, warming up with the rest of the team.
By the opening faceoff, I recognize some of the others too.
Down the ice, Jonah winds up for a showy slapshot that pings off the crossbar. Half the arena groans while the Outlaws’ bench erupts like the puck went in anyway.
Maxon slips the puck around a defenseman with something that looks like a magic trick, then grins as he races after it.
And through all of it, Timothy is just... there. Waiting on the bench, then stepping onto the ice and quietly making himself useful wherever the play starts to break down.
The Outlaws turn the puck over near the blue line. One of their defensemen gets caught moving the wrong direction, and Timothy is already closing the gap before I fully register what went wrong.
He takes the hit against the boards with his shoulder, absorbs it like it's nothing, gets possession of the puck and sends it clean down the ice.
My grip on the armrest tightens like I'm the one who just got checked into the boards.
Nobody on the bench reacts beyond a few taps of sticks. Apparently this is an ordinary shift for Timothy.
Cool. Fine. Normal. That is a completely normal amount of interest to have in one man’s ability to survive being driven into a wall.
Two shifts later, Timothy threads a pass through two opposing sticks and lands it square on Maxon’s stick. Maxon sends it into the net, and the arena erupts.
The lights flash. The goal horn blasts. Everyone around me surges to their feet.
Timothy skates back toward center ice while the attention follows Maxon.
That's mildly outrageous, actually. I feel weirdly indignant on his behalf.
Mom nudges my drink toward me without taking her eyes off the ice. She has barely touched her own, which means she has spent the entire first period watching me watch Timothy.
“That’s Jenna’s brother, isn’t it?” she asks.
"Yeah." I make a face I hope conveys nothing and probably fails.
Mom gives me a sidelong look but lets it go.
"Is the schedule for Thursday still fine?" she asks.
"Yep." I pop the 'P' and try to look like this is all normal behavior.
The corner of her mouth disappears behind her cup.
Mom has always been good at noticing things without demanding an explanation. Usually, I appreciate that quality.
I just wish she wouldn't be noticing my reactions to Timothy.
The second period picks up speed. An opposing player winds up from the point, and Timothy slides into the shooting lane, turning one leg toward the puck as it slams into his shin pad.
I flinch on his behalf.
The crowd cheers when the Outlaws clear the zone, already following the puck to the other end of the ice.
I keep watching Timothy.
There is a half-second hitch in his stride that he immediately tries to erase. Men and their heroic refusal to acknowledge pain. It might be funny if the man doing it was anyone but Timothy.
He keeps playing, favoring it a little.
And whatever I was feeling shifts from admiration into something warmer and considerably more inconvenient.
The final horn sounds with the Outlaws ahead by one.
The players spill over the boards in a clatter of gloves, helmets, and victory noise while the crowd rises around us.
The crowd begins funneling toward the exits. Mom checks the time and adjusts the strap of her purse.
“I need to catch Grant before he disappears for the night.”
She stands.
“I’ll meet you by the car.”
She disappears into the stream of people heading toward the administrative hallway, leaving me alone in an arena full of strangers.
I should head for the parking lot.
Instead, I linger near the corridor the players use, because apparently that is a thing I do now. Outlaws players stream past in a damp, jubilant wave.
Timothy comes through behind most of the team, like he is accustomed to letting louder people fill every doorway first.
He carries his stick with the tape chipped at the blade, head down.
When he sees me, he stops.
"You came to the game?" he asks. His voice is rough from exertion, and his eyes do something tired and brown that logistics have genuinely never once done to me.
I open my mouth to say something encouraging.
Instead I say, “You should have gotten more credit for Maxon’s goal. And that block in the second looked painful.”
He blinks like I've spoken a foreign language.
“You saw that?” The surprise in his voice is sharper than the question deserves.
"I have eyes," I say.
He laughs.
The hallway feels smaller all of a sudden. Warmer. Dangerously private.
I remember, unhelpfully, that getting involved with him could complicate my growing business, my friendship with Jenna, and nearly every part of my daily life.
The joke about eyes was easy. The math of complications is not.
"Hey," someone yells from down the hall, "anyone seen Brenton?"
“That depends,” I call back.
The locker-room door swings open, and Shane looks from Timothy to me.
“Found him,” he calls over his shoulder. “He’s busy flirting with Bethany.”
Laughter ripples down the corridor. Timothy’s ears turn faintly pink, but his smile shifts into something softer.
“I should probably go.”
Timothy lifts a hand in an almost-wave and follows the noise back toward the locker room, stick balanced over his shoulder.
I stay by the door a beat longer than necessary, my hand hanging loose at my side.
The rink is the same as it was an hour ago. Ice, coffee, sweat. But something about the air in here feels different now, and I can't quite talk myself out of it.
I can't go back to thinking he's just the quiet guy in the corner.
Worse, I'm not sure I want to.