Ice Shy (Ottawa Otters Legends #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

ELLIOT

There are countless ways to make a great first impression on day one of a new job; nearly killing your boss before you’re in the building is not one of them.

As I slam on the brakes, the neat, high ponytail I’d taken the extra time to straighten this morning, flies forward and smacks me in the face.

I push the hair out of my eyes and blink up at the huge man glaring down at me from where he stands casting a shadow over my Toyota Matrix.

The bright January sun spills around his monstrous form.

The nickname Behemoth really suits him, I think as I stare up at him.

While I’ve never met the Ottawa Otters head coach I almost ran over just now, I’ve been aware of him since childhood.

From the kids I went to school with wearing his jersey, to his face being on magazine covers at the convenience store I worked at part time, Arthur Stetson was hard to miss—and not just because of his towering height and larger-than-life frame.

I saw him on television all the time too.

Whether he was promoting a sports drink or athletic gear, or just being discussed at length on highlight reel after highlight reel.

I remember my ex heckling him loudly from the couch as I tried to soothe our colicky son back to sleep.

And I’ll never forget the game his career ended—and how gleeful Shawn had been as they carried him injured off the ice. Asshole.

You’re one to talk, Elliot, I think. Shawn may have called him names but he never came close to running him over in a parking lot, now did he?

Obviously, I wasn’t intending to hit him or anyone else.

I was distracted by a parking sign I had just passed.

I looked away for a second and when I looked back, there he was.

It’s unfortunately very normal for my attention to be diverted.

I’m easily thrown off task. But it’s very rare that my lack of attention almost ends in tragedy.

“I’m sorry!” I yell through the windshield.

His eyes drop to my mouth, scowl deepening.

It’s possible he didn’t actually hear me, just noticed my lips moving.

The windows are all up to keep out the frigid January air, but even with the heater on full blast, the way he’s positively glowering at me sends a shiver down my spine.

After a slow shake of his head, he turns on his heel and starts to walk away, and my entire body sags in relief. I drop my head a little too hard and the loud blare of the horn rings out when my forehead meets the wheel.

I sit up straight, expecting another glare, but the huge man is still walking away, not bothering to look back.

It’s a determined walk. One with purpose.

Power. He walks with the unmistakable gait of an athlete—broad shoulders squared, each step deliberate and weighted.

I can’t help but notice his left foot turns slightly outward with every stride.

It gives his walk a subtle lopsided rhythm.

Still, he carries himself like someone who knows how to take, and give, a good hit.

I pry my fingers out of their death grip on the steering wheel and give my hands a little shake, willing the circulation to return.

“It’s not how you start the day—it’s how you finish it, Elliot,” I tell myself before putting the car into drive and continuing to look for an open parking space. I spot one just ahead and feel my mouth stretch into a smile. “See? Things are looking up already.”

I do my best to keep up with my tour guide, Cal, but it’s a challenge.

Even though the head physiotherapist’s legs are half the length of mine, they somehow move three times as fast. Her sleek black ponytail swishes in time with her steps as she walks several feet in front of me, like it’s in a hurry too.

I bet she didn’t need to run it through a straightening iron this morning.

Or any morning. It probably looks like that all on its own, unlike my hair which is neither straight nor curly.

Sometimes when the humidity is perfect and the stars are aligned, I have something similar to beach waves.

Most of the time? It looks like I’ve been mildly electrocuted.

I follow Cal and her silky hair through a maze of narrow hallways and stairwells, past signs marked Authorized Personnel Only, my boots echoing softly on the concrete floors. All the offices and locker rooms start to look the same and I silently hope I’ll be able to remember my way back tomorrow.

I’m actually winded by the time we make it to a door marked “Treatment Room.” My son Sam accuses me of walking too fast, but I feel like a tortoise compared to this hare.

Cal pushes the door open and steps aside, letting me walk in first. The room is huge—much bigger than any treatment space I’ve ever worked in.

A row of padded tables lines one wall, each with neatly folded towels stacked beside them.

The opposite wall is covered in mirrors, with several weight benches spaced evenly across the floor.

“You’ll find your tape, bandages, and wraps up there,” Cal says pointing to the cabinets over the tables. “Foam rollers and resistance bands are next to those. Cold packs are in the deep freeze over there. And finally”—she nods at a closed door—“the hot tub and ice baths are in there.”

“Perfect.”

“Now, I understand you’re coming from a small practice. It might be a bit overwhelming at first to work with pro athletes, but they’re good guys and I think you’ll get along just fine.” Her gaze goes from direct to frighteningly intense. “If anyone gives you any shit, you come see me. Understood?”

At this moment I would trust this tiny, raven-haired spit-fire to protect me from a league of monsters. I barely restrain myself from saluting her. “Understood.”

“Good. Any questions so far?”

How did I get this lucky? How did a single mom who juggles three jobs, scrimping and saving just to get by, end up with a full-time position in a professional hockey organization?

Steady hours, solid benefits, an incredible pension plan—and a paycheque that’s more than I ever imagined making.

I’m so happy I could cry. Actually, I did cry when HR from the Ottawa Otters called to offer me the job.

I’m opening my mouth to hurl one of the three-hundred questions bouncing around my brain at her when the door to the treatment room flies open with such force it slams into the wall.

Arthur Stetson fills the doorway completely. I thought he looked large in the parking lot, but seeing him inside I realize how positively massive he is. He doesn’t notice me standing in the corner.

“I need more of that cream.” His voice is like lava mixed with gravel. Deep. Hot. Deadly.

Cal doesn’t seem plussed in the least by either his dramatic appearance or his demand. One sculpted black eyebrow raises but otherwise her expression remains the same. “You finished the other batch already?”

The man’s jaw hardens as he looks down at her. “Would I be here if I hadn’t?”

Cal frowns up at him then turns away, shaking her head. “Try not to be too charming, Coach. You’ll frighten away the new hire.”

His large frame stiffens. “What new—” He stops mid sentence as he turns his head and sees me. Surprise flickers in his eyes followed immediately by recognition, and finally what looks a lot like disdain.

“Hi.” It comes out a bit squeaky and I clear my throat. I remind myself how much I need this job as I walk on unsteady legs across the room. I give him what I hope is a friendly smile and stick out my hand. “I’m Elliot Baker. The new physiotherapist.”

He stares at my hand for a long moment before extending his own. My hand all but disappears into his as he shakes it, firm and professional, before he lets go.

“Did you find someone else to run down in the parking lot?” he asks sardonically, and I feel myself flush.

“No,” I admit sheepishly. “But not for lack of trying.” I wink at him.

Sweet mother of pearl, why did I wink at him?

He gives me a look so hard it may actually leave a bruise. After a long moment he turns back to Cal, expectantly.

Without a word she underhand tosses a small white container to him. He catches it with ease, like it was being pulled by an invisible force into his hand. Without so much as a nod or a word of acknowledgement, he turns on his heel, leaving the way he arrived. Abruptly.

I’m relieved by his absence, but wish the whole encounter had gone more smoothly.

He may not be my direct supervisor, but when it comes to his players, what he says goes.

If I want to keep this job—and I really want to keep this job—I need to stay on the higher-ups’ good sides.

And few people are higher up than Arthur Stetson.

Literally. The man must be six five at least.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell Cal before fleeing the treatment room just in time to see the coach going around the corner. I jog to catch up with him. His limp appears worse than it was even a few hours ago in the parking lot.

“Excuse me, Coach?” I call when he’s ten feet away. He slows but doesn’t stop.

“Yes?” The word is clipped as he continues down the corridor.

“Um…hi,” I say as I attempt to fall into step with him. “I just wanted to say that I’m very sorry for…” I fumble for the right words.

“Almost killing me?” he offers, unhelpfully.

I laugh, because the entire situation is ridiculous. “Yes, exactly. It won’t happen again. Also, I wanted to tell you how excited I am to work with you.”

“You won’t be.”

“Excuse me?”

He stops, turning to face me with a deep sigh that’s not only audible, but palpable.

I can feel his exhaustion—like it’s seeping out into the space between us.

For the first time, I get a good look at this colossal man.

He has to be in his early forties now, but age has only made him more striking.

The fine lines at the corners of his dark eyes and mouth add character.

His brown hair is touched with just enough grey to make him look distinguished, not old.

Up close, he’s all broad shoulders, strong jaw, and quiet intensity—and somehow, even more attractive than he was in his prime.

“Miss Baker—”

“Please, call me Elliot.”

His jaw ticks. “You will work with my players. If I have any specific instructions, I will communicate them through my coaching staff. I don’t work with the physios.” A curt nod and then he’s walking past me.

As I stare after him, his limp is basically screaming at me for help.

“Well, maybe you should,” I mutter.

Apparently, age hasn’t dulled his hearing. He halts mid-stride, his entire body going rigid before he slowly turns to face me. “Excuse me?”

His voice is clipped and I instinctively straighten my spine, trying to summon up an ounce of self-confidence. He might be the reigning hockey authority around here, but I’m the expert when it comes to the human body.

“Your gait is off,” I say, steady but careful.

“Most likely from an old injury that never healed properly. You hide it well, but the signs are there—stiffness, limited range, a hint of compensation in your stride. With the right treatment you could see a major improvement. Even with a chronic injury, you’d be surprised what a targeted plan can do. I’d be happy to help…you…”

The words trail off as I watch his face harden. The temperature in the hallway seems to drop ten degrees. Coach Stetson’s expression is granite, and my confidence fizzles out like a match in a swimming pool.

“As impressive as that unrequested assessment was,” he says, each word sharp enough to draw blood, “I told you—I don’t work with physios.”

He pivots and strides away with purpose, and I silently pray he’s not marching straight to HR to end my contract before it even begins. Just before he rounds the corner, he tosses a final comment over his shoulder.

“Welcome to the Otters, Ms. Baker.”

He doesn’t look back.