Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
ARTHUR
Of all the technological advancements mankind has achieved, nothing’s really fucked us over quite like the cell phone.
I’m not a luddite, I do own a cell phone. I like knowing what sort of weather to expect in the coming days—mostly so I can look forward to my leg hurting more than usual when it’s cold and damp.
I like being able to conjure up player stats and final game scores whenever I want to, wherever I want to.
I like knowing where I’m going and how to get there without ever needing to ask for directions. Haven’t been lost since the early 2000s.
I don’t even give a shit about the supposed dangers of social media because I don’t use any of those apps to begin with.
Much to my sister Britt’s disappointment.
She’s just mad because she can’t tag me in her “throwback Thursday” posts and that I can’t “like” her daily pictures of a steaming cup of green tea and whatever the hell granola-based breakfast she’s eating on any given day.
Her workaround for the latter is she just texts me pictures of her food which I then refuse to acknowledge out of principle.
No, my real issue with the aluminum rectangle that we, as a society, have allowed to rule our lives is this: My father knows he can call me anytime he wants. And we both know, without a doubt, that I will always pick up.
As if on cue, my phone buzzes on my desk. I take a grounding breath and then exhale through my nose before picking it up and swiping to answer.
“You been playing lullabies in the locker room between periods, Arty?”
I hate that nickname. Acquaintances call me Arthur.
Friends, the few I have, usually refer to me as Ace, and everyone else just calls me Coach.
My father is the only one who calls me Arty, despite knowing how much I hate it.
But when have my or anyone else’s feelings ever meant a damn thing to Edward Stetson the Third?
Not answering will just piss him off, and as much as the thought of raising his blood pressure enough to send him to an early grave appeals to me, it will ultimately make this conversation last longer. Which is why I decide to give him what he wants.
“Morning, Dad. No lullabies that I’m aware of. Why do you ask?” I rest my head on the back on my leather chair and wait for the punchline I saw coming a mile away.
“Huh.” His sneer practically comes through the phone and wraps around my throat. “I wonder why your second line always looks like they’re asleep?” His laugh comes out like a wheeze, and I hold the phone away to distance myself from it.
One might call his behaviour childish, but there is nothing child-like about my father. He’s always been a mean bastard. Now he’s just an old one.
“Listen, son.”
I think I hate being called that more than Arty. I don’t like being reminded that this is what I came from.
“It’s like I always tell you, you’re too soft. You were too soft on the ice and now you’re too soft behind the bench. I blame your mother.”
Tell me something I don’t know, Dad. At age thirty-eight, my dad was still playing hockey in Boston when I was born.
It wasn’t like it is now. Players didn’t miss games for frivolous things like helping their wives bring children into the world.
My mother gave birth to me alone in a hospital in Calgary, Alberta.
After thirty-six hours of labour she pushed out all ten pounds, four ounces of me and named me Arthur after her late father.
That was my first sin. My father had assumed she knew she was supposed to name me Edward Stetson the Fourth.
Since he didn’t actually come home to Calgary to meet his first born until after his team was eliminated from the playoffs, I had been legally Arthur Stetson for two whole months before he had any idea.
A disappointment from the very beginning.
My father managed to play pro hockey for another four years, though given how much he drank and smoked, I have no idea how. After he retired he came home ready for the next chapter in his life. Unfortunately for me, that included trying his damndest to mold me into another version of himself.
And God, did he try—when he hit that perfect combination of sober enough and not too hungover, anyway.
In addition to my regular Pee Wee hockey practices and games, he had me out on the backyard rink every night running drills until my legs gave out.
Sometimes he pulled me out of school for days at a time to work on one technique or another.
Did it work? Yeah, it did. Maybe too well. By the time my turn in the draft came around, I was twice the player my father ever was. Faster, stronger, better in every way. I was also a good four inches taller than him, and I know that pissed him off.
In just ten years, I shattered every one of my father’s personal records—except one. We both have two Stanley Cup rings. He took twenty years to get his. I was on the brink of my third when a teammate’s skate sliced through my Achilles and ended everything.
“Are you listening to me, Arty?” my father snaps, pulling me from my pleasant walk down memory lane.
“Of course,” I lie. “Look, I’m late for a meeting so I have to run.” Another lie. I’m on a roll. “It was nice talking to you, Dad.” Now I’m three for three.
My father snorts. “Run? I see you trying to hide that limp every time they show you on TV. You’ve got a better chance of winning the Cup than you’ve got at going for a jog.”
He’s still laughing when I end the call.
My hand tightens around the phone, jaw locked so hard it aches.
I shouldn’t let him get to me—not after everything—but he always does.
No one cuts deeper, and he knows it. The man has made a sport out of dragging me down.
Always has. Always will. And still, some pathetic part of me keeps answering his calls.
I don’t even know why. Britt had the good sense to cut him out of her life completely after Mom died.
I should have too, but I didn’t. Not until I’ve broken our final tie.
I am going to win the Cup again. And then I’m going to block that miserable son of a bitch’s number and never speak to him for the rest of my life. Or better yet, the rest of his.
I push myself back from my desk and a sharp pain radiates through my left knee.
Christ. It’s like it knew we were talking about it.
The Achilles injury wasn’t my fault. What I did after was.
I never let it heal, learned to compensate, shifted my weight and favoured one side until my knee was carrying what my ankle wouldn’t.
Now the pain is chronic. Just another consequence of my actions, or lack thereof.
With a wince, I reach for the top drawer and open it with more force than necessary. I find the small white container, remembering before I even pick it up that it’s empty. It was empty when I reached for it yesterday morning as well. I just haven’t had a chance to go back to Cal for a refill.
Because I’ve been busy. I’m a busy man with a big job that pulls me in several different directions.
It’s not that I’ve been avoiding the treatment room for the last six weeks for any reason.
Such as a bright-eyed new hire with an air of optimism, a heart-shaped ass, and a mouth that never stops moving.
“Knock, knock!”
I look up to find Will Oliver filling the doorframe of my office—quite literally.
He’s six foot five and built like a tank, with deep brown skin and close-cropped black hair faded sharp at the sides.
His large brown eyes always look like he’s about two seconds from laughing.
He wears a dark green tracksuit, running shoes, and his signature mega watt smile.
He’s a good kid, and one of my most popular players on and off the ice.
“Oliver,” I greet him with a nod. “How’s the shoulder?”
If he’s annoyed I went straight for the injury instead of the pleasantries, he doesn’t show it. Not his style. Will’s been rehabbing an AC joint sprain after a nasty hit early last month. The injury wasn’t serious enough to need surgery, but enough to sideline him for a few weeks.
“It feels great,” he says, beaming. He lifts and lowers his left arm like he’s a child that’s just learned close up magic. “See?”
The man’s so giddy it almost makes you forget he’s missed twelve games.
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“My mobility’s almost back to normal, and Elliot says it’ll continue to improve.”
I swallow hard against the bitter taste creeping up my throat. “That’s good.”
“She says now that the pain’s gone, we can focus on building my strength again.”
“Great.”
“But the best part is that I just saw Dr. Cabot, and he’s cleared me for practice!”
“I guess you better suit up, kid.”
I may as well have handed him a basket of puppies.
“Thanks, Coach!” He beams, disappearing down the hallway toward the locker room. “I can’t wait to tell Elliot!”
My jaw tightens, the echo of his words stirring up the memory of my first—and only—conversation with our newest team physio.
“Your gait is off.”
I’m well aware, Ms. Baker.
I know the limp is there. I’ve lived with it for more than ten years. And I know everyone else sees it too, even if they never say a word. Out of respect, maybe. Or fear. Possibly both.
No one talks about it. Not my assistant coaches. Not my players. Not even the media. They all pretend it’s not there, like ignoring it will make it disappear. Aside from my asshole of a father, no one ever acknowledges it.
But she did.
She didn’t do it to be cruel. It wasn’t because she was trying to prove a point or make me feel small. She said it because she wanted to help. Because she gave a damn.
And for some reason, her genuine concern pissed me off even more.
I’ve replayed her words in my head more times than I can count this past month.
I should’ve shrugged it off. I wanted to.
But they stuck. And now every time I take a step and feel that familiar bite of pain, I think about that sweet voice, those kind eyes, and the goddamn honesty that came with them.
I don’t need help.
Of course I’ve tried physio. Several times. Different places, different faces, all feeding me the same preconceived solutions like they know my body better than I do.
They stretched me out, handed me a resistance band, and made a bunch of lofty promises.
People don’t understand injury unless they’ve lived it. They talk about pain like it’s a temporary inconvenience. Not something I’ve lived with daily for the past ten years.
Every physio I ever met thought they were the exception. That they were going to be the one to fix me. They didn’t.
I don’t need anyone to fix me. I don’t need their pity or their concern. And I definitely don’t need a pretty face with a bleeding heart thinking my limp is a puzzle she can solve. I’ve got a schedule to keep, a team to lead, and a fuse that’s too damn short for the likes of most.
As I push to stand, I mask my grimace out of habit, even though no one is here to witness it. I slowly make my way out of my office and toward the ice where my guys are warming up for morning practice.
I make a mental note to swing by the pharmacy on my way home and grab some over-the-counter analgesic cream. It’s not as effective as the stuff Cal mixes for me, but it’ll save me from having to deal with the new physio.
I’ve got nothing against Elliot. Not personally, anyway. From what I hear, she knows what she’s doing. The players seem to like her, and so does the staff. Hell, even Cal speaks highly of her, and aside from her wife Nadine, she doesn’t like anyone.
But Elliot is a distraction.
A wide-eyed, quick-witted, distraction who is far too easy to look at, and there is no room in my life for that kind of complication. I’ve got a Stanley Cup to win.