“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.”
