Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
ARTHUR
“Congrats on winning the series in six, Arty.”
I don’t respond because I know without a doubt that the backhanded part of my father’s compliment is coming.
“Of course, you should have won it in four. I mean, Detroit? They shouldn’t have even made the playoffs.”
I don’t know what pisses me off more. That my father can’t let me have even the smallest victory, or the fact that I agree with him.
Because we should have won that series in four games.
It should have been an easy sweep. But I didn’t count on our starting goalie, Foster James, pulling his groin in game three.
Games four and five proved to be a comedy of errors, but by some miracle, we were able to come back and win game six.
Foster has been cleared to start the next series against Florida. And as we’re much more evenly matched teams, we’re going to need him.
My father starts to cough violently. Most people would hold the phone away from their mouth, but not Ed Stetson. He continues to hack and hack into the phone, not caring that the noise is enough to blow out my ear drum. He sounds awful. Like he’s about to cough up a lung.
Eventually the coughing dies down, turning into a weaker wheeze. If I ask if he’s okay, he’d tell me to mind my own business. Besides, it’s not like I care about his health any more than he cares about mine.
“You’ll need to focus if you want another chance at holding the Cup again,” he adds.
“I am focused.” I am.
“Sure you are, Arty.” My father’s laugh is hollow. Like he heard someone laugh once in a movie and decided to replicate it. “Just make sure you stay that way. Distractions will be the end of you.”
Elliot’s face flashes in my mind as he ends the call. She is not a distraction. She’s not.
Just because I no longer spend every second of my downtime obsessing over strategy and overanalyzing game plays, doesn’t mean I’m any less committed to my goal.
When I’m at work, with my team, I’m locked in. Laser focused. And when I’m with Elliot. Well. It’s like I’m able to unplug for a little while. Rest the part of my brain that always needs to be on.
She hasn’t distracted me. In fact, she’s helped me be better. I’m no longer on the verge of burnout. I’m doing the physio exercises I should have been doing for years. I have more energy. Less pain. More joy.
Okay. Joy might be overshooting it. I’m still me, after all.
The point is, I am still very much in control. I’m winning the Cup. I’m beating my father. And I’m doing it on my terms.
And right now, that means dropping in on our new Otters Youth Volunteer initiative. When I suggested Elliot put Sam’s name in for the program she seemed excited but skeptical.
“A program for kids to work with the team? That sounds made up.”
Because I just made it up.
“Why haven’t I heard about it?”
Again. I just made it up.
When Elliot mentioned she wished Sam had more activities to get him out of the house, I listened. I mean, of course I did. If Elliot is talking, I’m paying attention. Still, I didn’t know how to help.
I read about another hockey team that runs a program for teens, and it got me thinking. Obviously, we don’t need kids running around on the ice during games, but what if there was a way to involve them behind the scenes?
The idea really clicked after a conversation with our equipment manager a few weeks ago. Teens could help with player equipment, learn how game days actually work, and get real behind-the-scenes access to the team.
Sam was the obvious first choice, but if the program works, there’s no reason it couldn’t grow into something bigger.
I find Sam with Rick, our equipment manager, in the locker room. It’s late Wednesday afternoon and we don’t play again until Friday night.
“You’re going to help me make sure everyone’s gear is where it needs to be,” Rick tells him, handing Sam a clipboard.
Sam nods, solemn as a contract signing. His face gives nothing away.
“How’s the new recruit?” I ask, letting them know I’m there.
Rick grins. “I think he’ll make a great addition to the team, Coach.”
Sam’s cheeks turn pink. “Thank you,” he mumbles.
Rick’s phone buzzes. He checks the screen and steps out to take the call, leaving us alone in the room.
“So,” I start, then hesitate. Small talk has never been my strength, especially with kids. “How does it feel to be the youngest member of the Otters organization in franchise history?”
“Good. Weird.” He shrugs, eyes still on the clipboard.
Fair enough.
“Foster’s been cleared to play on Friday?” he asks.
It takes me a second, but I’m grateful for the change in subject. “Yeah. He’s green-lit.”
Sam nods, quick and decisive. “Florida would be hard to beat without him.”
“They would.”
He hesitates, then looks up at me. “Have you ever thought about moving Cole Sharkey up to the first line?”
I freeze. I had. More than once. “I’ve considered it.”
Something softens on Sam’s face, something like relief. Maybe it’s validation. Maybe it’s just relief that he didn’t say something I thought was stupid.
“I think he’d do well on that line,” he says.
“Explain.”
“He’s got a really strong right shot that the line could use. And he’s a hell of a forechecker. Plus, Alexei’s been slowing down. The second line might do him some good.”
“You know,” I say, leaning back against a locker, “for a kid who doesn’t play hockey, you have a pretty solid grasp of the game.”
A faint blush creeps under his freckles. He shrugs, eyes dropping to the floor. “I like the strategy. It’s kind of like chess. Thinking ahead. Planning your move. Figuring out how to adjust when someone blows that plan up.”
“That tracks.” I nod. “What other advice do you have for me, Coach?”
He considers that, chewing on his bottom lip. The gesture makes him look a lot like his mom. “Just keep pushing Austin’s offensive starts. I think that’s going to matter in this next series.”
“Agreed.” I pause. “Anything else I should know?”
“My mom’s birthday is in three weeks.”
“It is?”
A slow, satisfied smile spreads across his face.
Shit. “I mean…that’s good to know.” I clear my throat. “We don’t really do birthdays in any official capacity, but if I mention it to Cal she’ll probably make sure there’s a cake or something.”
“I know you’re dating my mom.”
Well, hell.
“What makes you think that?”
Sam hops up onto one of the wooden benches, swinging his legs. I take the one across from him.
“She stopped being your physiotherapist.”
Is that all he’s got? Maybe this won’t be a disaster. “Our schedules weren’t compatible,” I lie smoothly. “I’m seeing someone else.”
“But you’re still texting her. A lot.”
Fuck. “You shouldn’t read other people’s texts.”
“I don’t,” he says mildly. “But when my mom’s phone lights up every five seconds, I’ve seen your name on the screen.”
I give him my best authoritative look.
He meets it without blinking. “I’m a child,” he says, perfectly innocent. “Curiosity is one of our most natural characteristics.”
This kid is more mature than half my players.
“Alright,” I say, trying to sound tough. “Is that all you’ve got? The fact that I’ve texted your mom a couple times?”
Sam shoots me a look that screams really, man?
“Fine. More than a couple times. How do you know I’m not texting her about work?”
He scrunches his nose, amused. “Because I’ve seen her when she reads the texts. Her eyes light up and her face goes all soft, like she’s watching a video of puppies. No one’s face looks like that when they’re talking about physiotherapy.”
God. What I wouldn’t give to see that. Does she really look like that when she reads my messages? I know I’ve caught myself grinning like an idiot at her texts, smiling at my phone until my jaw hurts.
“Look,” Sam says, resting his hands on his knees, leaning forward slightly. I feel like he’s the coach and I’m the rookie getting a pep talk. “I’m not looking for confirmation from you. My mom is happy. That’s all I care about. She deserves to be happy.”
“Yes, she does.”
“I’m glad you agree. That’s all I wanted you to know. And that her birthday is May twentieth. You can do what you want with that information. Just…remember, she’s allergic to flowers.”
I nod, keeping my face neutral. “I remember.”
“Good.”
Rick reappears in the doorway. “Sorry about the wait,” he says. “Grab your stuff. I’m taking you over to the practice facility.”
Sam slings his backpack over one shoulder and heads for the door.
“Have a good day,” I call after him.
“You too.” He pauses at the door, grinning. “And thanks for creating this opportunity for me. It’s really cool.”
“I didn’t create it for you,” I stammer, flustered.
“Sure. Just like you’re not dating my mom.” He winks and disappears, the locker room door clicking shut behind him.
I’m left standing there, alone with the echo of his grin, wondering not only how I’m going to tell Elliot her son knows about us, but also what the hell I’m going to get her for her birthday.