Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Silas
Idon't like bars. Paying to yell over music while your friends get hammered isn't my idea of a good time. But when Scout came out of her room in a pink dress and said she was heading to the Secret History, I followed.
Someone needs to make sure the idiots downstairs don't harass her.
Now I'm sitting in the Havoc's private room, pretending to listen to my teammates while I watch Scout.
She's wearing that short pink dress. Heads turned when she walked in. Of course they did.
Scout sits with Juliet and Jessa, doing what she always does. Taking care of everyone. Sliding drinks closer before they can ask. Handing out napkins. Offering to run upstairs when Ivy forgets something.
Always making herself useful.
I scowl into my beer. Watching how she operates around everyone, not just me, makes me angry. I have no right to feel jealous. No claim on her. No reason to care who she talks to or helps or smiles at.
Especially after last night.
I think about her messages. The way she typed out her wants. The memory of her coming while I gave instructions through text.
My cock stirs.
It was hot. I needed a release, but it wasn’t enough.
And now I'm jealous of my online persona. Why does Scout like StatMan? We don't even talk about real things. We just flirt and sext.
She'll stop eventually. Women always do. They get bored with the mystery. They want something real.
Then they're gone.
Hunter nudges my arm, playing with his wedding band. "Shoulder holding up okay?"
I shrug with my good side. "Fine."
"Liar," he says. He doesn't push it.
Thorne leans back across from me, grinning. "He's more worried about his babysitter. If Scout hates living with you, she can crash at my place. I wouldn't mind the company."
The words land like a punch. "Funny."
"It's not really a joke." Thorne drinks his beer. "She's hot. Sweet. Probably needs someone who doesn't growl at her constantly."
I growl low. "Real supportive."
I want to wipe that smirk off his face. Thorne's the team's golden boy. Power forward. Fan favorite. Flashy and smooth-talking. Probably Scout's type, too. Just look at Enzo.
Scout appears at our table. Her smile's aimed at Thorne. "Hey guys."
Thorne's eyes light up. "Hey, Scout. I heard you teach yoga."
Scout turns pink. "I do. How'd you hear that?"
He shrugs. "I have my sources. You ever teach outside the arena? I'd be interested."
"Oh! Really? You'd do yoga?"
"Sure. Especially if it's hands-on instruction. Maybe a private lesson?"
Scout beams. "Absolutely!"
Heat flares in my chest. "Thorne, quit being an asshole."
"What?" Scout's smile falls. "Were you joking?"
"He's fucking with me," I growl.
Scout tilts her head. "How so?"
"I was serious about yoga," Thorne assures her. "He's just grumpy because he doesn't want me flirting with you."
"Oh! I didn't, um..." Scout's eyes widen. She stares at anything but me. "I'm not sure how you came up with that, Thorne. Silas doesn't care who I talk to."
I'm not allowed to care. But I do.
"Is she right, buddy?" Thorne grins. "You don't mind if I try to take Scout home?"
"Call me buddy again." I lean forward. "I don't care that you're captain. I'll still wrap you around a telephone pole."
Thorne's grin widens. "See? He does care. So, Scout. How about we practice some down dog at my place?"
Juliet comes over just in time to hear that. Anger flashes across her face.
"You two are being inappropriate with Scout. She's a team employee." She gives Thorne a withering stare and grabs my hand. "You're already in trouble. I suggest you go home."
"Can no one take a joke?" Thorne mutters.
I point a finger at him. "You're making things worse."
"Or am I helping?" Thorne replies. "Only time will tell."
I grind my molars until my jaw aches. I can't tell Thorne to shut the hell up. And it's not like I'm allowed to tell Scout not to glow like that for anyone else.
What would I even say? She's not mine. She's living in my condo temporarily because the coaches mandated it. That's all.
So I take the coward's way out.
"Enough socializing," I mutter, pushing my chair back. The legs scrape against the floor. "I'm going to bed."
I know what will happen. Scout will follow. She always does. It's built into her DNA or something, this need to take care of people who don't deserve it. I definitely don't deserve it, but I'm also technically under her care. If I have to, I will use that to my advantage.
Predictably, Scout follows.
"Silas, wait!" she calls out, gathering her jacket. "I'll come with you. You still need to be monitored."
Thorne sits back, looking pleased with himself. Hunter shoots me a look that says he knows exactly what I'm doing. He's right, but I don't fucking care. I ignore him and head for the exit.
The elevator ride up to my condo's quiet. Scout fidgets with her phone. I keep my eyes on the ground and try not to think about how good she smells even after hours at a bar. Lavender and eucalyptus cutting through stale beer.
I can't help but picture me sliding my hand into her dark blonde curls and leaning down, pressing my nose to her crown. Inhaling more of her scent.
Once we’re back in the condo, she hovers like I’m made of glass. "Do you want food? I could make something. Or heat? Ice for your shoulder?"
As if on cue, my shoulder throbs. I rub it, but I can't reach the healing incision or the aching knots bunched up just below my right shoulder blade.
Scout stops in front of me, her lips puckering. "Silas, let me help you. Please? I can heat up a wrap, or massage your shoulder..."
"Massage," I bite out before I can stop myself.
She lights up. "Come sit on the couch."
She touches my left arm, guiding me into the living room, moving around behind me as I sit down. I stiffen when her hands land on my shoulders. God, her touch is too warm, her hands moving carefully against my skin. As though she thinks I might break if she presses too hard.
"You can do it harder than that."
"Okay," she says. Her fingers dig into the knot near my shoulder blade. "How's this pressure?"
I'm built like a nuclear fallout shelter. Obscenely tall, beefy, low body fat percentage. There's no room for pretty architecture on my frame. And what she's currently doing to my back makes me want to close my eyes and whimper. I can't have that happen, so I lie.
"Feels okay," I grunt.
Scout sighs, though her hands never leave my shoulders. "I'm over here wasting my time on a grumpy man who acts like I'm torturing him."
I wince as she hits an especially tender spot. "You might be."
"Oh, Silas. God forbid someone tries to help you," she mutters. Her thumbs press harder, finding the exact spot that makes white heat explode down my arm. "Ice cold one minute, needy the next. Make up your mind."
They call me Ice Man. The nickname stuck years ago when I didn't react to a dirty hit that should've started a line brawl.
Everyone thinks I'm emotionless. Unaffected.
A machine. But right now, with her hands on me, I'm anything but cold.
I'm burning up from the inside out, desperate for more contact, more touch, more of her.
My jaw clenches so hard I think my teeth might crack. I want to shove her off. Or maybe I should pull her closer. I find myself wanting things I have no business wanting.
"I'm not your project," I manage.
"No," she snaps, pressing deeper into the knot. "You're impossible."
Her curls brush the back of my neck when she leans in for better leverage.
I swear under my breath. That shampoo she uses taunts me, lavender and eucalyptus folding into my lungs with every breath.
It's like being in a field of flowers. I want to lie on my back, legs and arms spread wide, and be engulfed in that scent.
The sound rips out of me before I can stop it. A guttural moan, rough and low and completely involuntary. Shame floods through me hot and immediate. My cock stirs against my sweatpants, traitorous and obvious and humiliating.
Her hands pause. Just for a beat. Then they resume, polite and careful, like nothing happened.
I haven't been touched like this in so long.
Years of keeping people at arm's length, of refusing physical therapy that required hands on my body, of jerking off alone in the dark because letting anyone close felt too dangerous.
My skin's starving for this. Every nerve ending screams for her to press harder, touch more, never stop.
The contact rewires something in my brain, short-circuits my carefully built defenses.
I want to beg her to keep going. I want to grab her hands and put them everywhere.
Fuck me. What she's doing feels so good. Somehow, it makes everything worse.
"Stop," I grind out, shifting forward to hide the evidence of my body's betrayal. "That's enough."
Her hands still immediately. I can hear the worry in her voice when she says, "Did I hurt you?"
The shame swirls inside my chest, rising higher.
"You couldn't hurt me. I just hit my limit."
"Fine." She steps back. Her tone is clipped and professional. "I get it."
“You did… fine. Good.” I’m fucking this up even more, somehow. “My shoulder just needs to rest.”
Scout’s eyebrows rise, but thank fuck she doesn’t press the matter. "I'm going to my room. Let me know if you need anything."
She disappears down the hallway without another word. My head droops forward. I sit alone in the living room, shoulder still throbbing, cock still hard, shame coating everything like oil.
Fuck me. I'm letting my old crush on my pretty neighbor resurface, and it's only growing, getting worse. How am I supposed to keep Scout at a distance when she's in the next bedroom?
I spend the rest of the night reviewing film highlights of my upcoming opposing team. But when I'm done, I realize I might have just kicked back and zoned out. I can't remember a single stat or think of how best to defend against them.
Before bed, I head through my ironclad routine because routines are safe. Predictable. Shower, stretch, Sudoku. I step out of the steam with a towel slung low on my hips, my chin-length hair still dripping water down my shoulders.
Scout rounds the corner from the kitchen. She blinks when she sees me. Her eyes go wide for half a second before she catches herself.
"Wow," she says. There's something in her voice I can't identify. "You brought the steam with you."
Something hot flashes between us. The air goes thick and charged. Her eyes drop to my chest. I watch them track down the muscle, following water droplets. Then they snap back up to my face, cheeks flushing pink.
I should say something normal. Anything that defuses this moment before it gets more awkward.
Instead I snap too sharp. "Go to bed."
Her mouth shuts. The warmth in her eyes cools to something flat and distant. She turns and disappears down the hall without another word.
Fuck me. Opening my mouth guarantees that whatever comes out is rude and surly.
Getting into sweats and lying in my bed feels almost too good.
My injury is beyond painful. I look at the bottle of pain pills I've been prescribed sitting on my bedside table.
By grinning and bearing the pain, I've gone all day without needing any opiates.
But now I think I might actually need one.
I shake a pill out and down it with the bottle of water I keep on my bedside table. Then I close my eyes. My shoulder aches, pain radiating from the epicenter out into my neck and down to my sternum.
I tell myself that the pain's good. I don't need more than this.
But I know I’m lying.