And the best part? It was free. Public Relations sent me an email earlier this week with two tickets attached. “Just another perk of being on the payroll, I guess.”
As the Otters make their way toward the locker room, my gaze catches on Arthur. He stands out immediately, a solid figure in a perfectly cut black suit amid the blur of green jerseys. Where the players are flushed and sweat-slicked, he’s composed, shoulders squared, exuding that quiet authority he always maintains. He doesn’t need to shout to command respect. Just a nod, a firm hand on a shoulder, a few low words and his players fall in line.
He moves with confidence, the kind that makes you want to keep your eyes on him. Even when the game was in full chaos, he had that same steady presence, as if nothing could shake him.
When the last player disappears down the tunnel, Arthur lifts his head. His eyes sweep the crowd once before locking onto mine like he’d known exactly where I was sitting. The air leaves my lungs in a rush.
I smile tentatively at him as his eyes linger on me, unreadable but sharp. His gaze flicks to my mouth. One beat. Two. My skin prickles as if he’d actually touched me. By the time hiseyes return to mine, my lips feel too warm, too exposed, like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t.
Arthur dips his chin in that subtle nod of his, but this time, there’s no edge to it. No scowl shadowing his face. If anything, I swear there’s a hint of something softer. I almost feel like he’s glad I’m here.
“Can I get some popcorn?” Sam asks, finally breaking our staring contest. His green eyes are hopeful, already flicking up the stairs toward the concession stands.
“Of course, sweetie.” I reach for the belt bag strapped across my chest, fingers sliding over the zipper until I find the twenty-dollar bill I tucked there earlier.
“I have money, Mom.” Sam pats my leg as he stands, lanky and all elbows, his Otters hoodie hanging loose on his narrow frame.
I force a smile, but inside, the reminder stings. I follow a careful cash budget. I’ve had to, in order to save for Sam’s education while also paying down Shawn’s mountain of high-interest debt. Every dollar has been stretched, accounted for, and counted twice. It hasn’t been easy—few things in my life have been. But with obsessive planning, strategic grocery runs, and the occasional bit of luck, I’ve managed to keep us afloat.
It hurts my heart when Sam offers to cover things. He’s only twelve, but he’s always trying to lighten the load I’m carrying. He’s received a good chunk of money from chess tournament wins. More recently, he’s been walking Bruno, our elderly neighbour’s oversized golden retriever, while the man recovers from his knee replacement surgery. Sam always comes home grinning, his cheeks pink from the cold with a crumpled bill or two folded into his palm.
I’m proud of him and all his accomplishments. But sometimes I wish he’d spend his money on silly kids stuff like candy and video games, instead of trying to pay for his own essentials like new winter boots and clothes.
Things I should be providing for him.
“Do you want anything at the canteen?” he asks, his voice cracking just a little, that reminder he’s caught somewhere between a boy and a young man.
I shake my head. “No, thank you, I’m good.” My bag is stacked with snacks, as always. There’s no way I’m going to pay eight dollars for a bag of Sour Patch Kids when the same size costs two at the grocery store. But I can’t smuggle in hot, buttery popcorn, and that’s always been Sam’s favourite.
He sighs, then begrudgingly takes the bill from me, tucking it into the pocket of his hoodie. He’s about to step into the aisle when a concessions employee suddenly appears in front of us.
“Hi!” the young man says, his smile quick and nervous. He looks barely older than Sam—sixteen, maybe seventeen. The nametag on his uniform readsConner. “Are you Elliot and Sam?”
“That’s us.”
“I’ve got some complimentary snacks and beverages for you.”
I glance down at the tray he’s carrying, stacked high with paper bags and sweating cups. My mouth waters instantly as the smells hit—salty, buttered popcorn, soft-baked pretzels warm enough to fog their wax paper sleeves, and hot dogs. My stomach grumbles. I swear, a moment ago I wasn’t even hungry.
“Oh…that’s not necessary,” I say quickly, still blinking at the bounty. “Wait—did Ben Michaels send these?” The last time we came to a game with Ben’s girlfriend, Maddy, we sat in a private box with its own snack bar.
Conner shakes his head, his greasy hair falling across his acne-scarred forehead. His hands are pink from carrying the heavy tray in front of him. “Not sure, ma’am. I was just instructed to load up a cart and come to your seats.”
Sam’s eyes flick to mine waiting for me to give the go ahead. His restraint is almost comical.
The concession kid shifts under the weight of the tray, and I finally cave.
“Thank you,” I tell him with a smile. “This was really nice of…whoever did this.”
Sam doesn’t need to be told twice. He snatches up a red-and-white striped bag of popcorn, a large drink, and a pack of Twizzlers in one smooth move. When he thanks Conner, he’s already tearing into the wrapper with his teeth.
I pick more slowly, choosing a soft pretzel in a paper sleeve and a can of lime sparkling water.
Remembering the twenty-dollar bill in my hand, I offer it to him. “Here. Thank you for hauling all this.”
He shakes his head firmly, though his ears flush pink. “Thank you, ma’am, but gratuities are included. If you need anything else, just come find me at the Fan Services counter. Enjoy the game!”
With a polite nod, he starts to climb the stairs, leaving behind a delighted twelve-year-old boy.
