Chapter 38
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
ARTHUR
“Nice win last night, Mr. Stetson.”
“Thanks, Tony.” I slow long enough to clasp the friendly security guard’s hand. He’s been with the team far longer than most of us, through coaching changes, rebuilds, and heartbreak seasons.
“One more!” he calls after me, voice bright as I head toward the arena’s VIP entrance.
One more.
One more game. The one that decides who goes to the Stanley Cup Finals.
One more.
There’s no real reason for me to be here this morning.
We fly to Boston later this afternoon. My bag is packed.
My notes are ready. Every scenario has been walked through a dozen times.
Still, pacing Otter headquarters feels safer than pacing my condo, where the walls echo and the silence strangles me.
The building is unusually quiet. Even for a Friday. A lot of people were probably up late watching the game last night.
I poke my head into the equipment room, half-expecting to find Rick pulling what little hair he has left out.
Instead, I find Sam.
“Sam?”
“Hey,” he says, flashing an easy smile when he sees me.
I raise an eyebrow. “Are you skipping school?”
“No,” he deadpans. “I’m on a field trip.” He gestures broadly to the empty room. “Meet my class.”
I snort. “Smart-ass. What are you actually doing?”
“Just helping Rick double-check everything before you guys leave for Boston.” He taps a checklist clipped to the counter like proof.
“That’s great.”
He studies me for a second. “What about you? What are you doing here?”
The instinct to deflect rises immediately out of habit.
“Killing time so I don’t go crazy,” I admit. “Mostly.”
That earns me a knowing smile.
“Nervous?”
I shrug. “Not really. We’ll either win or we won’t. It’s the waiting that gets to me.”
He nods, thoughtful in a way that feels older than his years. “Do you think your dad will be at the game again?”
My shoulders tighten out of habit. “I hope not,” I answer, honestly.
He doesn’t react right away. He just processes it.
“My father and I don’t have a good relationship,” I add.
“We should start a club,” Sam says dryly. “Why don’t you get along with him?”
I want to be truthful, but I’m also aware I’m talking to a kid. A perceptive one, but still a kid. I choose my words carefully.
“He’s not a nice man. He wasn’t a good dad when I was growing up. He was pretty mean.” I hesitate. “To me and my sister. And to my mom.”
My throat tightens as the words settle between us.
“Is your mom…” he starts, then stops.
“She died.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago,” I say quietly. “Almost twenty years.”
He meets my eyes. “I’m still sorry.”
“Thanks.” I swallow, forcing a breath. “Anyway. He calls sometimes and gives me shit—” I catch myself. “I mean, crap.”
“It’s okay,” Sam says easily. “Ben says swearing is allowed when the situation calls for it.” He pauses, then adds with absolute certainty, “Your dad sounds like a real piece of shit.”
My laugh echoes off the walls of the equipment room. “Yeah,” I say, shaking my head. “I guess he really is.”
“I know what that’s like.”
My smile falters as I look down at him. “Yeah,” I say softly. “I know you do.”
He hops up onto the table, his legs swinging as they dangle above the ground. “I used to think it was my fault that he left. I get it now that it wasn’t.” He shrugs. “I don’t miss him. And I used to feel bad about that, because he’s my dad. You know?”
“I do.”
“But when I think about it, Mom and I were happier once he was gone. Like we could finally breathe.” He pauses, picking at a loose thread on his shirt. “My teacher says families come in all shapes and sizes. Sometimes they’re the ones you’re born into, and sometimes they’re the ones you choose.”
He looks up at me then, intently. “So, if your dad’s a jerk, I don’t think you have to feel bad about not wanting him around. You can make your own family. If you want.”
He doesn’t say the words outright, but I feel the invitation settle in my chest all the same.
I swallow past the tightness in my throat. “You’re a smart kid,” I tell him.
“Oh yeah,” he says, grinning. “I know.”
We both laugh.
“Does your mom know you’re here, smart guy?” I ask.
“Yep. She said I could help Rick today instead of going to school.”
I shake my head. “You two are a reckless pair.”
He grins wider. “We are. Probably good for you to know that now. In case you want to make a clean getaway.”
I meet his gaze and hold it. “I’m not going anywhere. If that’s okay with you.”
He nods quickly. “It is.”
“Good. You hungry?”
“I could eat.”
“What do you say we track down your mom and grab some lunch before I head to the airport?”
Sam’s face brightens. “Can we drive you?”
“Yeah,” I say easily. “I’d like that.”
He hops down from the table and shrugs into his coat. I notice the back of his Otters shirt for the first time.
MICHAELS 06
“Did Ben give you that?” I ask.
“Yeah.” He rolls his eyes in a way that’s already become familiar. “I keep telling him he’s not my favourite player, but he refuses to accept reality.”
I smile. “Want to mess with him?”
His eyes light up instantly. “Always.”
“I’ll grab you a Crawford shirt on our way out. You can wear it to the airport.”
Sam bursts out laughing. “He’s going to lose his mind. Let’s do it.”
We talk the entire walk to the physiotherapy room. Five months ago, I never would’ve believed this kind of easy conversation was possible. I’m starting to understand that I don’t need to be perfect for him. I just need to be present. To be myself. To show up.
When we step inside, Elliot looks up from her table. The moment she sees us together her already beautiful face transforms into something luminous. More breathtaking than any sunrise I’ve ever seen.
“We’re taking you to lunch,” Sam announces, “and then we’re taking Arthur to the airport.”
“If that’s okay,” I add.
She glances at Sam, then back at me, her smile soft and certain. “It’s perfect.”
We lace our fingers together as we head toward the merch boutique, Sam animatedly filling his mom in on the plan to prank Ben.
My phone rings and I pull it from my pocket.
My father’s name flashes across the screen.
For the first time, there’s no familiar spike of dread. No tension. Just…nothing.
“Do you need to take that?” Elliot asks gently.
I watch the screen for a beat, then hit decline. I open my contacts, find his name, and block the number. There’s no second-guessing. No guilt.
“No,” I say, leaning down to kiss her. “I don’t.”