Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Scout
The arena buzzes with post-practice energy.
Today marks my first full mobility class, and excitement thrums through my veins as the players filter in.
They're sweaty and tired, muscles warm and pliable.
Perfect for mobility work. Mini-bands and lacrosse balls fill my arms as I move through the training room, helping where I can.
Connor hunches on the bench, wincing every time he tries to roll his neck. The pattern screams levator scapulae, tight from looking down at his phone too much.
"Hey." Setting my supplies down next to him, I offer a smile. "Mind if I help?"
Surprise flashes across his face, but he nods fast. "Please. It's killing me."
I guide him through a doorway stretch that takes seconds. Then I hand him a lacrosse ball to use against the wall for trigger point release. His relief comes, immediate and vocal.
"Holy shit, Scout." A grin splits his face, genuine gratitude lighting up his features. "How'd you know exactly where it hurt?"
"Kinesiology degree." Warmth creeps into my cheeks as I smile back. "And lots of practice. Keep doing that twice a day. And maybe look up from your phone more often."
Laughter bursts from him, and he gives me a two-fingered salute. "Yes, ma'am."
Two more players drift over, asking for help with tight hips and sore shoulders.
Working with them comes naturally, patient and thorough, explaining each stretch and why it matters for their game.
"This opens your hip flexors, gives you a longer stride off the line.
This one improves your thoracic spine rotation, helps with your shot mechanics and passing accuracy. "
They listen, actually listen. Then they thank me. Delight floods through me as they ask follow-up questions like I'm someone worth learning from.
For the first time in months, my brain gets used for something that matters. No more fetching coffee or running copies or making myself useful in ways anyone could do. This work feels specific and valuable, something only I can offer.
I feel eyes on me from across the room that make my skin prickle. Glancing up, I catch Silas watching. His face stays blank, unreadable, arms crossed over his chest in that way he does when he's judging something. No words come, just that intense stare.
People call him Ice Man. And right now, the nickname fits perfectly. He looks cold. Distant. It seems like he might be evaluating me from behind a wall of ice I'll never crack.
But the wall comes down sometimes. The way he defended me from Enzo proved that. Those flashes of heat in his eyes when he thinks I'm not looking tell the real story. He's not actually cold. Everyone just thinks he is because that's what he lets them believe.
"You know, your grumpy face is bumming everyone out,” I call over to him.
His jaw ticks. For a second, ignoring me completely seems like the likely outcome. Then he moves across the training room and plunks himself down on the bench beside the rookies.
"Okay," he mutters. "Help me stretch."
My pulse jumps. My shaking hands betray me slightly as I position his leg for a hip flexor stretch. He's massive up close, all muscle and heat radiating through his practice gear. Touching him feels dangerous, electric in a way that makes my skin prickle.
Guiding him through the hip opener requires my hands on his knee and thigh. I try to remind myself that I’m a professional. Except my body refuses to cooperate. His skin burns through the thin fabric of his shorts. His muscles coil tight under my palms, resisting the stretch.
God, he's handsome. Even scowling. Especially scowling, if I'm being honest with myself. His dirty blond hair's damp with sweat, pushed back from his forehead, making those blue-gray eyes more intense. A tower of pure muscle, all hard lines and sharp angles.
The athletic shorts ride low on his hips, showing the cut of his obliques.
His thighs are massive beneath my hands, corded with muscle from years of explosive skating.
The black compression shirt clings to his chest, outlining every ridge of his abs, the breadth of his shoulders.
Even his forearms are distracting. They’re veiny and strong, the kind of forearms that make you think about being pinned down.
His jaw stays tight, that familiar scowl making him look severe, but there's a flush high on his cheekbones that gives him away.
This is affecting him too.
The sharp line of his jaw catches my attention. The way his dirty blond hair falls over his forehead. The intensity in those blue-gray eyes when they lock on mine.
My crush on Silas is proving itself to be very much alive. I look at the curve of his shoulders, the strength in his thighs, and the way his breathing changes when I press deeper into the stretch.
God, I need to get laid, and soon. Hopefully my sexting buddy will agree to meet up in person because this crush on Silas has gotten completely out of hand. Something, anything, needs to redirect this energy before I do something monumentally stupid.
Ripping Silas’s shirt off, licking his abs, and begging for him to fuck me comes to mind.
"You're good at this," he mutters.
Startled, I blink. It's the closest thing to a compliment he's given me. "Thanks."
Beaming at him probably looks insane, but stopping myself proves impossible. My whole chest warms with the praise. Pathetic, really, how much I crave his approval. This tiny scrap of acknowledgment means everything to me.
Okay. An official crush on Silas Huxley has definitely developed. Well, less developed and more awakened again, after years of dormancy. Whatever existed before I moved into his condo has morphed and grown, doubling itself in size like fresh dough in a proving drawer.
That's all fine... as long as it stays buried. Acting on my feelings, letting them show, or doing anything to make this living situation more awkward than it already is… that can't happen.
So what if he occasionally stands up for me in front of Enzo and lets me pretend he's my boyfriend? He has the emotional depth of a frozen puddle. And that doesn't exactly scream relationship material. Better to keep my distance from him and focus on work.
Finishing the stretch, I step back, putting space between us. "You should do that twice a day. Morning and night. It'll help with your stride and take pressure off your shoulder."
He nods, then stands and walks away, leaving me standing there with my hands still tingling from touching him. Damn it.
Later, the staff lounge becomes my workspace as I review Mobility Monday metrics. Juliet breezes in with Mollie in tow. Mollie looks frazzled, clutching a tablet like it's a life raft in stormy seas.
"Scout, perfect timing." Juliet's smile is sharp and efficient. "Mollie's shadowing me on the promo shoot next week. She'll be wrangling Thorne for the social media content."
Mollie groans, her face going pink. "I'd rather die."
Tilting my head, amusement bubbles up at her reaction. "That bad?"
"He's impossible," Mollie mutters, not meeting my eyes. "All charm and zero substance. I can't stand him."
"So you know each other?"
Though it didn't seem possible for Mollie to blush any harder, she manages it. "Unfortunately. He and my brother go way, way back. To them, I'll always be a nuisance in pigtails."
"I bet you look amazing in pigtails."
"Yeah, well." Mollie sighs and looks at Juliet. "Juliet's been helping me get ready. If we can get the players on board to help, we can really boost the team's TikTok account."
"You're doing such a good job, Mollie. I'm sure this will turn out well." Juliet turns to me, tablet out and open to a document. "Also, I added your name to the Recovery Protocol documentation. I gave you co-author credit. It's going to the coaches and GM today."
My stomach drops. "Juliet, you don't have to do that. It was your idea to implement the program. I just helped with the details."
"Are you kidding? You designed it. You built the metrics and tracking system. You're running it and getting results." Her voice is firm, brooking no argument. "You get credit for your work. Don't argue with me about this."
"Thanks." A wobbly smile manages its way onto my face. "I promise to make you look good."
After she leaves with Mollie, I look down at the document. Juliet sharing credit with me feels too big. What if the coaches think I'm overstepping? What if they decide I don't have the credentials to be listed as a co-author?
But erasing my name without telling Juliet seems sneaky. Causing her to lose trust is the last thing I want to happen, so I leave it for now.
By late afternoon, Hunter shows up to collect Juliet. Leaning against the doorframe, all brooding intensity and barely-contained energy radiates from him. His eyes lock on his wife like she's the only person in the room. Everyone else fades to background noise.
Part of me thinks she’s lucky. Part of me is worried that Hunter will kill her and wear her like a skin suit. She doesn’t seem the least bit concerned, though, so I mind my own business.
When Juliet walks over to him, he murmurs something in her ear that makes her blush and swat at his chest. She's smiling though. It's a private smile that says whatever he said was filthy and perfect and exactly what she wanted to hear.
Keeping his hand on the small of her back as they leave shows his possession, but also his gentleness. Claiming her without making her small.
Back at the condo, I put my leggings on and unroll my yoga mat in the living room. Centering myself, shaking off the weight of the day feels necessary. Moving through sun salutations, breathing deep, letting the familiar poses ground me helps. Warrior one. Warrior two. Triangle pose.
My body knows these movements like a language, flowing from one to the next without thought. It doesn’t bring any sense of calmness or peace, though. My body is restless.
That night, I lie down and open up Twinge, needing to feel some connection. And, I guess, I want to feel some positive affirmation. So sue me. I pull up the conversation with StatMan, the only guy I’ve even talked to, and fish for compliments.
Yoga4Lyfe
What drew you to talk to me?
StatMan12
What do you mean?
Yoga4Lyfe
My profile? My photos??
StatMan12
If I'm honest, the pic of you teaching a yoga class grabbed my interest. But then we started talking, and I realized how pure and good you are.
Yoga4Lyfe
I'm not that pure and good.
StatMan12
You are. You're sweet and clean as sunshine.
Yoga4Lyfe
What if I want to be dirty?
StatMan12
Are you a little horny?
Yoga4Lyfe
Exceedingly horny.
StatMan12
Then close your eyes. Imagine my hands on you. Rough and desperate because I've been holding back for too long. I'd grab your hips, pull you hard against me, make you feel exactly how much you affect me. I'd fist your curls, tilt your head back, and mark your throat so everyone knows you're mine.
My thighs clench. Heat pools low in my belly, spreading through me like fire.
Yoga4Lyfe
Keep going.
StatMan12
I'd strip you slow. Kiss every inch of skin I uncover. Tell you how perfect you are with every touch. How much I've wanted this. I've been thinking about your taste, your sounds, the way you'd feel wrapped around me.
Yoga4Lyfe
God. You’ve got me so worked up. What else would you do to me?
StatMan12
I’m going to tell you just what to do, Yoga Girl.
Touch yourself for me. Slow at first. Pretend it's my hands. My mouth. My cock buried deep inside you. And when you come, I want you to say my name even though you don't know it yet. Imagine what it would sound like falling from your lips.
My hand slides under the waistband of my sleep shorts. My breathing comes faster, ragged and desperate. Following his instructions, I rub my clit myself while imagining his hands instead of mine. I hear his voice in my ear, feel his body covering mine.
I come hard, muffling my cry in the pillow so Silas won't hear through the walls. My whole body shakes with the force of it. My muscles tremble, skin flushes and grows sensitive.
When my breathing returns to normal, when my heart stops trying to punch through my ribcage, I type one shaky message.
Yoga4Lyfe
I want to meet you. Please. I need to know you're real.
The reply takes longer this time. He's typing and deleting responses. Shit, he's deciding how to let me down easy.
StatMan12
Soon. I promise. When the timing's right.
Frustrating. It's exactly what he said before.
Yoga4Lyfe
When will the timing be right?
StatMan12
I'm dealing with some complicated work stuff right now. I don't want to meet you when I'm distracted or stressed. I want to give you my full attention. You deserve that.
Reasonable. Thoughtful even. So why does it feel like an excuse?
Yoga4Lyfe
Okay. I can wait. But not forever.
StatMan12
I won't make you wait forever. I want this too. More than you know.
I want to believe him. But I’ve been promised things before, things that could never be true. I don’t want to believe that StatMan would lie to me, so I choose to believe that he just happens to have a complicated work situation, even though that’s bullshit.
Yoga4Lyfe
Goodnight. Dream about me.
StatMan12
I always do, baby.
Setting the phone down on my nightstand, my body still hums with aftershocks. My skin is still sensitive, but my mind won't settle. As much as texting StatMan is enjoyable, I’m starting to feel like he's just using me. A fun fantasy every night before he goes to sleep.
I’d like it to be more, but he obviously doesn’t want that.
My mind wanders, picturing who he could be. Traveling for work makes sense. Obviously he does something physical, because abs like he has in his photo don't come from spending time on the couch.
What else do I know about him? He could be a personal trainer. Maybe he works for a moving company or fells trees for a living.
Or maybe... he's an athlete. A hockey player.
A burst of giggles escapes from my throat.
Yeah, right. He's one of Silas's teammates and he picked me because he liked my downward dog photo.
The chances of a pro athlete picking a soft-bodied girl whose only true love is pizza are so unbelievably low, it's laughable. Hockey god meets shy yoga nerd.
Besides, I’m done with hockey players. Leaning back into my pillows, a smile forms on my lips and my eyes drift closed. The very silly notion that StatMan could be a ripped hottie instead of a photo stolen from Facebook follows me into my dreams.