Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
ELLIOT
I feel like I’ve been summoned to the principal’s office for the first time in my life—except I’m thirty-two, not twelve, and the stakes are much higher than detention.
My steps are slow, like I’m trying to buy myself time or run out the clock. I run through possible openings like a comedian trying for the perfect punchline. Obviously, I have to apologize for the way I spoke to him yesterday. That’s the smart, survival-move thing to do.
But he should apologize too for the crap he said to me. I’m not naive enough to think that’s going to happen. I’m the one on a probationary period. He’s the one with all the power. All it would take is one curt phone call from him and I’d be gone.
Do I grovel? Spell out how much I need this job?
My old position at the private clinic paid half as much, and that’s when the shifts weren’t getting cut at the last minute.
Not to mention the benefits here are actually worth something.
And it’s not just about the money—though God do I need it.
I love it here. In a few short weeks I’ve built real connections with the players and staff.
This place already feels more like home than anywhere I’ve worked.
By the time I’m standing in front of his door, I’m no closer to having a plan. So, like most things in my life, I’ll play it by ear and hope for the best.
I knock lightly, as if the door might bite me.
“Come in.”
I step inside. His office is nicer than I expected—warm sunlight spilling through a wide window, muted grey tones, and neat, uncluttered surfaces. Minimalist and maybe a little too organized for my taste, but it’s inviting.
The man behind the desk, however, is anything but.
“That’s a big desk,” I blurt before I can stop myself.
Arthur’s mouth twitches like it wants to smile, but it just can’t bring itself to go through with it.
“Which makes sense,” I add, gesturing loosely toward him. “You’re a big man.”
His gaze locks on mine, holding it so long my skin starts to heat. “So I’ve been told.”
The air in the room feels thick as he leans back in his chair, broad shoulders filling the space, forearms resting easily on the armrests. “I’m sure you know why you’re here, Ms. Baker.”
Oh god. Is he going to fire me on the spot? No trial, no jury, just him making the call? My stomach plummets as my heart rate goes into maximum overdrive.
“I didn’t mean to.” The words spill out in a rush. “I was impulsive and didn’t think about the consequences.” Why, Elliot? Why did you have to tell the man off, no doubt wounding his fragile male ego?
“Clearly.” His tone is so dry it could crumble to dust. Why does he have to be such a dick about this? I have to curl my fingers into my palms to keep from throwing something at him.
Don’t lose your temper. Don’t make this worse.
“I’m sorry. I really am. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
His head tilts, studying me. “How,” he says finally, “could you possibly think that was a good idea?”
I release the breath I’ve been holding. “Look, I said I was sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you and it won’t happen again. I know you don’t like me, but can we please keep this professional?”
He rears back in his seat, surprised.
“Professional? You brought a box of penis cookies to your place of work and you want me to be professional?”
I feel the exact moment the blood begins to drain out of my head. It starts like a prickle at the top of my scalp, and moves quickly past my eyes, nose, and mouth leaving me lightheaded.
“I…”
“The note was a nice touch.” He continues as he picks up a familiar looking pink piece of paper and reads my own writing to me. “‘Shoot for the stars.’ Cute.”
“I didn’t…those weren’t…” I think I might faint.
Apparently, Arthur thinks the same thing. He bites back a curse as he pushes himself up and walks around his desk. When he reaches me, he takes my forearms gently in his hands.
“Sit down, Elliot.”
I comply, landing heavily in the chair.
“Good. Take some deep breaths for me.”
I suck in air and let it go, dropping my head between my knees in an attempt to remain conscious. I’m not sure how long I’m like this when I feel something cold and cool against my hand. I sit up to find Arthur offering me a can of sparkling water.
I accept it, gratefully, immediately bringing it to my lips and taking a few small sips. I don’t want to drink too much as I still think I may be very close to throwing up.
Arthur sits on the edge of his desk, eyeing me with concern. He’s probably worried I’m about to puke on his very nice rug.
When I no longer feel like I’m going to either faint or vomit, I find my voice. “Those were the wrong cookies.”
He shows no signs of surprise. Maybe he doesn’t even believe me. “Explain.”
“It was an order for a bachelorette party. I always make more cookies than I need to in case I mess them up. Sometimes they break when I’m decorating them. Or more likely, I forget about them when they’re in the oven and they burn. But the cookies were all perfect yesterday.”
“Perfect penises,” he deadpans.
“Yes.” My face is on fire. “I don’t like food going to waste, so I always decorate the extras.
You’d be surprised how many different designs you can make with a penis cookie cutter, but my go to is rocket ships.
I brought the extra rocket ships and the penis cookies into work today.
I must have mixed up the boxes when I got here. This has never happened before.”
“So, before today, you’ve never presented a bunch of penis cookies to a group of professional male athletes and told them to ‘shoot for the stars.’ Is that what you’re telling me?”
I want to die. I nod. “Yes. That’s what I’m telling you.” This is the most mortifying thing that’s ever happened to me. “If I made any of the players or staff uncomfortable—”
He huffs out the closest thing to a laugh I’ve heard from him. “The boys think it’s hilarious, Elliot. It’s the highlight of their week. They’re having a dick tasting contest as we speak.”
I groan and bury my face in my hands. “I’m so, so sorry.” I can’t bring myself to look at him. It’s too humiliating.
“Apology accepted.”
“I’m just—what?”
His expression is flat, but not unkind. “You made a mistake. You said you were sorry. It’s fine.”
“You’re not going to fire me?”
“Fire you?” One brow lifts, deliberate and slow, like he’s weighing how much amusement to show. “No, Elliot. You’re a good physiotherapist, and we’re already short staffed. Firing you would hurt the players, which would hurt the team, which would hurt me. I have no intention of letting you go.”
I stare at him. Was that a compliment? A compliment. From Arthur Stetson. Someone check on Hell. They might need sweaters and mittens.
“While we’re on the subject of apologies…” He clears his throat. “I owe you one as well. It was not my place to talk about your financial situation. I was completely out of line. I wasn’t trying to insult you, but I realize that I did. I’m sorry.”
A compliment and an apology. If he starts smiling, I might actually pass out.
“Do you have room in your schedule for another patient?”
The change in topic snaps my attention back to him. “Um…yes, of course. Which player would you like me to work with?” I’ll take on as many patients as he wants to keep my job.
“Not a player, Ms. Baker. Me.”
I blink. He blinks back. Neither of us moves.
“But… you don’t like me.”
“You’ve been highly recommended. In your short time here, you’ve had excellent results,” he says, ignoring my declaration.
“But you don’t like me.”
His jaw works from side to side, a flex and release that draws my attention to the cut of his cheekbones.
“I don’t dislike you. Your initial assessment of me the day we met was…
accurate. So accurate it pissed me off. I’m used to people telling me what they think I want to hear.
When you pointed out the problem everyone else ignored, it was jarring.
I think…maybe I could use more of your honesty. ”
“So…you want me to work with you in between my sessions with the players?” Can I do that? Work this closely with this man and not get myself fired?
He shakes his head. “Not here. After hours. I have all the equipment we’d need in my home gym.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Stetson—”
“Arthur, please.”
“Arthur. I’m glad you’ve decided to get help for your injury, really I am. And I’m honoured that you’re asking me. But I’m a single mom with three jobs. I can’t train you outside my normal hours.”
He looks like he’s ready to argue, but then his expression shifts—eyes narrowing slightly, lips pressing together—like he’s running mental calculations.
“What if I come to you?”
I blink again. “Excuse me?”
“I could meet you at your house whenever it works for you. I’ll have to take team games and travel into consideration, of course.”
“With both our schedules, we’d probably only be able to train once a week,” I say, already booking sessions in my head.
One corner of his mouth curves upward, and the flicker of a smirk hovers there. “More than I’ve done for my injury in years. It’s a start.”
I sit forward, the hint of challenge sparking something in me. “I could give you exercises you can do anywhere. And if you had questions, we could use video calls. I’ve trained people remotely before. It works surprisingly well.”
He nods slowly, eyes not leaving mine. “That could work.”
“You’ll have to do what I tell you,” I say, leaning in a fraction before I realize it.
He pauses, gaze dipping to my mouth before returning to my eyes. “Well, yes. To a point.”
I shake my head. “No. I’ll give you a plan, and you’ll follow it. The plan doesn’t work if you don’t work the plan. My time is limited, and I don’t want to waste any of it. Understood?”
His lips press together, then part. “Understood.”
“Well…okay. We have a deal. I’d be happy to help you.”
He grimaces at help. “We have no such thing. You haven’t negotiated what you want out of this arrangement.”
“I just don’t want to get fired.”
His sigh is long, and his eyes soften just enough to make my pulse tick faster. “Your position is safe. I’m not extorting physio sessions from you. You don’t have to do this. I’ll pay you for your time.”
He jots a number on his notepad and turns it toward me.
I stare at it. “This would be me extorting you. My time isn’t worth that much.”
“Don’t sell yourself short.” His voice is lower now, deliberate. “I took the standard rate for a private physiotherapy session, added an after-hours fee, and a bonus for having me at your home.”
Overwhelmed doesn’t even begin to cover what I’m feeling. Grateful, yes. Nervous I’ll screw this up? Absolutely.
“How did you get to work today?”
I’m still staring at the number he wrote down, as if the ink might rearrange itself into something less outrageous. “My friend Jess drove me. She works at a police station five minutes away. She’s giving me a lift home too. Sam’s hanging out with a friend after school.”
He nods slowly, like he’s tucking the information away for later. “And your car?”
“I found a place that can take it tomorrow. They’ll tow it and everything, so it’ll be out of the lot then.”
Arthur slips a hand into his pocket and pulls out a set of keys. “The Otters organization has a number of company cars that are never all in use at the same time. You’re welcome to use one until your car is back in reliable working order.”
You have got to be kidding me. A company car? Why is he being so nice to me? Does he think that I’m dying?
“Though,” he continues, “given the look of it, I’m not sure that car has been reliable for quite some time.”
I place a hand over my chest, feigning offence. “First of all—rude. Second of all, I’ll have you know I’ve had Millie for decades.”
“I believe you. She looks like you’ve had her for decades.”
“She’s practically a member of the family.”
His eyes flicker with the barest hint of amusement. “Then I hope she left you something nice in her will when she died.”
I laugh long and hard because this entire exchange feels ridiculous and yet…oddly easy.
“You really don’t need to lend me the car—”
“I’m not. The organization is.”
“I can figure something out on my own.”
He tilts his head, studying me like a textbook he’s about to be quizzed on. “What’s the matter, Ms. Baker?” His voice dips just slightly. “Not strong enough to accept help?”
The corner of my mouth lifts. Well played. “Okay then,” I relent, waving my white flag. “I graciously accept your help.”
“Not my help.”
“The organization’s,” I echo, deepening my voice in a playful imitation of his.
I push myself to my feet, the keys cool against my palm. He stands too, sliding his hands into his pockets.
“We’re on the road for the next week or so,” he says, his gaze catching mine and holding it just a beat too long. “I’ll be in touch to set up an appointment when we get back.”
“Sounds good.”
“Let me know if you have any questions in the meantime.”
I pause at the door, turning back with the keys raised between my fingers. “Just one. My temporary car—what’s her name?”
A faint line appears between his brows. “It’s a car. It doesn’t have one.”
“Then I’ll just have to come up with one.”