I plop back in my seat, still in shock over the entire situation. A few people are peering over at us curiously, like they’re wondering who we are and why we’re getting special treatment.
“Maybe it’s because I work for the team now?” I wonder, though my voice sounds doubtful even to me.
“Maybe.” Sam doesn’t sound convinced either. He’s half-distracted, digging through his popcorn searching out the extra buttery pieces.
“Or maybe it was Ben?” I say slowly, turning the idea over in my head. “If it was him, I’m going to have to talk to him. It’s thoughtful, of course, but too much.”
Sam shrugs, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “My bet is on Mr. Stetson,” he says around a mouthful of popcorn.
I rear back, brows lifting. “Why would you think that?”
“He kept looking up at us during the first period.”
“He did? I didn’t notice.”
“Of course you didn’t,” Sam smirks, scattering a few stray kernels onto his hoodie. “You were covering your eyes half the time.”
I nudge him with my elbow, sending a few more popcorn kernels tumbling. He grins, unbothered, licking salt off his fingers.
“I have two theories,” he goes on, his tone far too serious for someone with butter on their chin. “The first is that this might be his way of apologizing for not following your physio plan.”
Could he be right? Did my opinion matter enough to Arthur Stetson that he’d arrange free tickets and a loaded cart of food just to smooth things over? The thought prickles uncomfortably in my chest.
“If that’s true—and I’m not saying it is—but if it is, it’s not necessary. He said he was sorry, and I accepted his apology.” I take a sip of sparkling water. “I may have been disappointed, but not surprised. People are stubborn, set in their ways. Change might be inevitable, but it’s never easy.”
Sam wipes his hands on his jeans and stands up, setting his drink carefully on the floor. “I’m going to run to the washroom before the second period starts.” He passes me his popcorn, and suddenly my lap is a precarious tower of snacks.
“Okay, sweetie.” I haven’t even touched my pretzel, and now I’m balancing soda, popcorn, and candy in my lap. “Wait!”
He retraces his steps until he’s back at my side. “Yeah?”
“What was your second theory?”
“Ohhh.” He drags a hand through his hair, a gesture so Ben Michaels coded it makes me bite back a smile. “Just that he really likes you. Be right back!”
Before I can respond, he’s already jogging up the arena steps, leaving me with too many snacks and even more questions.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ARTHUR
I’m startingto think that Elliot was born to be a physiotherapist. She’s smart, strong, and exceedingly patient.
And her hands are so fucking cold they could pass as ice packs.
Her fingers trail up my calf, cold enough to make me wince.
“Did that hurt?” she asks, head tilting, concern flickering in her soft green eyes. She doesn’t move her hand. “I wasn’t using any pressure, so that’s…concerning.”
I’m lying on what she referred to as a massage table. With its flimsy build it looks more like a lemonade stand with aspirations of one day becoming a massage table.
But so far it’s managing to support my weight, so what do I know?
“The only thing I’m concerned about is you,” I mutter through clenched teeth as her fingers glide higher, still freezing.
“Me? Why?”
“Either you have really bad circulation, or you died three days ago and no one has had the heart to tell you.”
