Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
ELLIOT
I always thought my home was the perfect size.
Not too big, not too small. Comfortable.
Manageable. It never felt lacking, just lived-in.
Sure, the place is older and could stand a few updates if I ever cared enough to drag it into this century, but it has always reminded me of that one sweatshirt you’ve had forever.
The seams are frayed, the fabric thinning, but it fits so well you can’t imagine replacing it.
This house has been that sweatshirt for me and Sam.
I never believed we needed anything newer, and certainly nothing bigger.
That is until Arthur Stetson stepped into my living room.
The man takes up space in a way that feels almost impossible.
He is everywhere at once, too large for everything in my house.
The couch suddenly seems child-sized. It is far too low for someone with his knee, and I imagine him struggling to stand up from it.
The armchair isn’t much better, squat and sagging.
He’s like Goldilocks, if Goldilocks were six foot five and built like the broad side of a barn. And nothing in my home is “just right.”
I spin in a slow circle, scanning the room as though some hidden, perfect solution will materialize. It doesn’t.
“No need to chase your own tail,” He tells me, looking entirely unbothered. “I’m good to stand.”
“Right. Me too.” I take a sip of my coffee. It’s freshly brewed, but barely counts as hot thanks to the excessive amount of salted caramel oat creamer I’ve drowned it in. After another sip, I glance up at Arthur.
“Can I make you a coffee?”
“I’m good. I had one this morning. If I drink coffee after noon, I’ll be awake all night.”
“I really shouldn’t be drinking it this late either.” I shrug. “I made one this morning to take to class and forgot it on the counter. I do that a lot. My brain’s kind of foggy first thing. I forget breakfast most days too.”
The giant man frowns down at me. “You should remember to eat.”
“I do,” I mutter defensively. “Eventually.”
Heat creeps into my cheeks as I set down my coffee and grab my notebook and pen from the coffee table, desperate to redirect myself.
I flip open to a fresh page and carefully write his name on the top line.
I’m not sure why I still insist on pen and paper for these first assessments.
It’s not as though I ever revisit the notes or update them.
Maybe it’s a habit. Maybe it’s because the act of writing keeps me anchored and makes my mind less likely to wander.
When I glance up, I catch him frowning at the page.
“Is something wrong?” I ask.
He hesitates, eyes still on the notebook. “I’ve never seen my name written like that before.”
I lower my gaze, confused. “In cursive?”
“I’ve seen cursive.” His mouth twitches. “But you made all the letters so…loopy.”
“I have loopy handwriting,” I admit, fighting to keep my own smile in check.
“Did you put a smiley face in the O?”
“Maybe.” I clutch the notebook closer to my chest, hoping he does not notice the other quirks. Like how I make my n’s look like tiny round butts. Or the way I dot my i’s with little hearts. Thankfully, his name doesn’t have any.
Clearing my throat, I try to steer us back to professional ground. “If it’s alright with you, I’d like to start at the beginning.”
“Shoot.”
“Tell me how the injury happened.” My pen hovers over the page, ready to move.
The look he gives me is flat, unimpressed. “You know how the injury happened.”
He’s right. I wasn’t there when it happened, but I’ve seen the footage more times than I care to admit. Every replay, every slow-motion highlight reel dissected by sportscasters who shook their heads and said what everyone else was thinking: there was no coming back from an injury like that.
Arthur clears his throat, the sound vibrating through the air between us. “Twelve years ago. Last game of the regular season. I was battling over the puck when my teammate got shoved from behind and crashed into me. His skate sliced clean through my Achilles. I was rushed into surgery.”
My stomach twists even though I already know the story. I write it down quickly, trying not to wince at the mental picture of the injury. “Any complications after surgery?”
“Not really. Recovery was…difficult. I was supposed to take it easy for six months and then reassess.”
I lift my eyes, arching one brow over the notebook. He stiffens slightly, caught in the look, and for the briefest second he seems almost boyish under the scrutiny. “You were supposed to,” I say softly, “but…”
He shifts against the wall, like he can’t quite get comfortable. “I thought I was invincible back then.”
I let the admission breathe and take up space. “And now?”
His mouth pulls in a faint grimace. “Now I’m a forty-two-year-old man who can barely get out of bed in the morning.”
Something inside me tugs painfully at that. The words are blunt. He’s a man who once thought he couldn’t be broken, sitting here admitting just how broken he feels. I take a step closer without even thinking. “I can help with that.”
The words come out differently than I imagined. Heat rises in my cheeks as I stumble over the implication. “I mean…I don’t literally mean I’ll help you out of bed. That would mean being in your bedroom, and there’s no reason for me to be in your bedroom. I…I don’t even know where you live.”
Arthur’s lips press together, but not in the sharp, irritated line I’ve seen from him before. This time the corners twitch, fighting a smile. His eyes catch mine, dark and steady, and the amusement there makes my pulse skitter in a way I don’t want to acknowledge.
“Noted,” he says, the word low and deliberate, as if he’s tucking it away for later.
I step back quickly, trying to recover some semblance of professionalism. At a safer distance, my head clears, my pulse steadies. It’s easier to look at him when I’m not standing close enough to feel the pull of his presence. Easier on the neck too.
“I assume you’ve done physiotherapy before.”
“You assume correctly.”
“And?”
“It didn’t work.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “Like I said. The plan won’t work if you don’t. Did you follow the physiotherapist’s plan?”
His eyes scan the room like they’re looking for the answer to my question. “Yes.”
I’m not buying it. “How closely?”
“Fairly closely.”
“Fairly?”
He shifts on his feet, redistributing his weight. “Reasonably closely.”
“Which was it, Coach? Fairly or reasonably?”
His hand comes up to scratch the side of his jaw as he appears to be considering my question. “Fairly reasonably.”
I huff a laugh, shaking my head. “Okay. I’m going to be straight with you, and in return you’re going to be honest with me.”
He nods warily.
“I really think I can help you but it’s not going to be a quick fix. It’s going to take time.”
“How much time?”
“Realistically? Months. Several months.” I watch the muscle in his jaw tighten.
“I know that’s not what you want to hear, but it’s the truth.
I’d like to start slowly with a combination of stretching, massage, and functional movement.
Focus on reducing your stiffness and discomfort.
Move on to regaining ankle mobility and strengthening your calves and glutes.
And, eventually, work at improving your gait.
You could even come to my aquafitness class, if you’d like.
It’s great exercise for injury recovery.
I know it sounds like a lot, but you’re young.
You’ve got the time. You’ve got the resources.
At the end of the day, whether this happens or not doesn’t come down to strength or talent, it comes down to attitude. So what’s it going to be?”
I see the moment my words land because his body transforms in front of me. The slumped shoulders draw back, the curved back straightens and his expression goes from doubt to pure conviction.
“Let’s do this.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Well, not the aquafitness class. There’s no way in hell I’m doing that.”
Over the next fifteen minutes, I walk him through the exercises I want him to start with. Neither of them are new to him. Eccentric heel raises and towel stretches are classics for a reason. They work. Even though he rolls his eyes at the elementary exercises, he does them without complaint.
“So, you’re going to do them every day?” I ask him for the third time as he’s getting ready to leave.
“Yes, Boss.”
I’m pretty sure he’s making fun of me, but as far as nicknames go, I love it.
“I’m serious. I’ll know if you don’t.”
He buttons up his coat before heading out the door. “Sure you will.”
I frown. “I will know, so you better do them.”
“You got it.” His tone is casual as he slowly makes his way to his big stupid truck.
“I mean it,” I call after him. “I will know and I will hunt you down for wasting my time.”
He gives me one more amused look over his shoulder. “But we’ve already established you don’t know where I live.”