Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Scout
Istand outside the locker room double-checking my supplies for the third time.
Laminated instruction cards sit on top of the cart.
Mini resistance bands in three different tensions fill one box.
Lacrosse balls for trigger point release fill another.
Foam rollers lean against the side. Everything's arranged on the equipment cart in a way that looks organized and professional.
My hands shake. I smooth them down my jeans and take a breath.
Twenty minutes. I can do anything for twenty minutes. This is the third class I’ve put together, so at least I have some idea of what’s to come.
The door swings open and players start filtering in, loud and restless with pre-game energy. A couple of rookies glance curiously at my setup. But no one says anything. I don’t hear any mutters or see any players rolling their eyes. That’s good, at least.
Beck Tate shoots me a look sharp enough to slice through steel. Coach Cross nods once, giving me permission to start.
My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "All right, everyone. Twenty minutes of mobility work. We're hitting hips, shoulders, and thoracic spine. Two minutes each side. You can pretend you like me later."
A few scattered laughs come from the back. Jett grins. "What's next, downward dog in the crease?"
More laughter ripples through the room but they're already moving into position, copying the hip opener I'm demonstrating. The rookies are eager, mimicking my movements with the kind of focus that makes my chest warm.
The veterans are more skeptical. Moose does the bare minimum until Thorne elbows him. Hunter participates, but I can tell he's humoring me.
Silas is trying gamely to balance, but he’s pretty wobbly.
"Silas," I say, keeping my tone light. “Bring your left shoulder down and balance the pose."
"I feel stupid," he mutters, but he drops into the shoulder opener against the wall.
I fight a smile and watch him hold the position longer than anyone else, face going tight with the stretch. His shoulder must be killing him but he doesn't quit until I tell him to switch sides.
"Good," I say quietly as I walk past. Just that one word. Something flickers in his eyes before he looks away. My cheeks feel warm as I remember our kiss last night.
We went to bed in our own rooms after kissing for a while. We didn’t talk about what it meant. I don’t want to, honestly. But now all the restless energy flows under my skin, puddling at the base of my spine. I can’t wait until I’m alone with him again.
Twenty minutes later I pack up my cart and head to my spot in the tunnel to watch warmups. My heart pounds in my chest. I can’t believe they actually participated instead of blowing me off.
Players hit the ice and I notice the difference immediately. Rookies look lighter on their feet, quicker through their strides. Even the veterans move with more fluidity through their warm-up drills.
The game starts and I hold my breath.
It’s not pretty. The other team is Santa Fe, not one of the teams they face regularly, and the Vultures have an extremely aggressive offensive line.
By the time the third period rolls around, the score is tied two to two.
An opposing forward gets in Silas's face after a clean hit, chirping and shoving, trying to draw a retaliation penalty.
Everything happens in slow motion. Silas's jaw goes tight. His fists start to curl. Every line of his body says he's about to snap and take the bait.
He pauses instead and takes a visible breath. He rolls his shoulders back exactly the way I showed them in the locker room. Then he skates away clean.
My heart is pounding out of my chest. I beam at him from the tunnel. Silas can’t see me, but I’m so proud of him.
The ref doesn't call anything because there's nothing to call and Silas stays on the ice instead of sitting in the penalty box. Two shifts later he assists on the game-winning goal.
We win four to two. We’re messy, but it’s effective. Those twenty minutes of mobility work made a difference. I feel it in my bones.
Players stream past in the tunnel after the final buzzer. Juliet brushes by me with a proud smile and a squeeze to my shoulder. Beck mutters something to Coach Cross that I can't quite hear but Cross nods and says, "Keep it on the schedule."
Keep it.
Staying on the schedule means my program's permanent.
Silas comes through last, hair damp from his helmet, eyes unreadable in that way he has. He slows as he passes me. He doesn't quite stop, but his words ring out. "Your thing worked."
Not praise exactly. It’s certainly not warm or effusive. And the corners of his mouth curl up just a hint. He’s smiling. He’s fucking smiling! I feel like all my veins are suddenly filled with pop rocks, fizzing and snapping.
Coming from Silas Huxley, it might as well be a standing ovation.
My pulse pounds in my throat. I grin as I watch him disappear toward the locker room.
Standing there alone in the tunnel, I feel lighter than I have in weeks. Maybe months. Tonight my work mattered. It made a tangible difference that showed up on the ice.
For once, I wasn't just useful. I was actually good at something that counts. After the game, I crash hard, barely making it into my bed before I fall asleep. Too many late nights, staying up and texting StatMan. So it’s not too surprising that I sleep a little late.
The next morning, I wake up buzzing with residual adrenaline.
Silas is on my mind, big time. What I want to do most of all is go into his room and crawl into bed with him.
When we stayed on the island, he spooned me for a while in the morning, gloriously warm and sleepy.
I really want more of that. And then we could… explore… when he woke up.
But creeping into my roommate’s bed and feeling him up would be massively weird, so I think about what I would like to do second most. And then I smile.
I find Silas in the kitchen with his protein shake, watching him scroll through his phone with that permanent scowl etched on his face.
"Come to hot yoga with me," I blurt out.
He looks at me like I just suggested we jump out of a plane without parachutes. "No."
"Yes." I'm grinning, half teasing but completely serious. "You owe me. One hour. That's it."
"I don't do yoga."
"You did mobility work yesterday and it helped. This is the same thing but sweatier."
His jaw ticks. "Scout..."
"One hour, Silas. Come on. Be reckless with me."
Something shifts in his expression. Maybe it's the challenge. Or maybe it's the way I'm looking at him. He sets down his shake with a resigned exhale and gives in.
"Fine. One hour. But I'm not wearing those tight pants."
I beam at him. "Deal."
When we arrive at the yoga studio, the airy room is already filling up with bodies.
We squeeze into two slots in the middle of the class and unroll our mats.
Silas looks like a glacier someone dropped into a sauna.
He unfolds his massive frame onto the too-small mat. His knees practically reach his ears.
Other women in the class steal glances at him. Pride pricks at me because I'm the one who brought him here. This mountain of a man actually listened when I asked him to do something completely outside his comfort zone.
The instructor starts and Silas struggles immediately. His too-tight shoulders resist the poses. His hips are beyond stiff. Rugged as rebar, he tries to bend into shapes his body actively fights.
"This is torture," he grits out during a particularly deep lunge.
I kneel beside him and adjust his front knee, guiding his arm into better alignment. Hot skin slick with sweat burns under my hand. "Breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Slowly."
He follows my instruction, actually listening to me for once instead of fighting everything.
Something shifts in his body. Not ease exactly, but surrender. He lets it wash over him like a wave and stops struggling against it.
Most people never see this Silas. Vulnerable and unguarded, willing to look foolish if it means he might feel better. His massive frame folds into shapes it wasn't designed for, sweat dripping down his temple, jaw finally unclenched. They call him Ice Man but he's melting right here.
Right now in this humid room surrounded by strangers, he's just Silas. Not the enforcer. Not the damaged veteran fighting to stay relevant. He’s just a man trying something new because I asked him to.
Silas watches me. Heavy and focused, his gaze tracks my movements like I'm something worth studying. Maybe he's seeing parts of me he didn't notice before. I like that idea.
When we move into the next pose, Silas immediately tries to muscle his way through it. His jaw sets. His shoulders lock. He treats the stretch like an opponent instead of a conversation, forcing his body into place with sheer will.
I lower my voice and call to him. “You don’t have to meet every sensation with force.”
He stills. Looks at me, confused, like that idea has never once crossed his mind.
“Try it again,” I say gently. “But don’t fight it. Just… stay.”
He exhales and resets. He wobbles immediately, irritation flickering across his face. For a second, I think he’s going to bail. Instead, he loosens his grip on the pose and stops pushing. Then lets his weight settle where it wants to go.
And his balance finds him.
Silas holds it this time. Not rigid or strained. Merely present. His breathing evens out, and something in his posture softens, like his body finally believes it doesn’t have to be on guard.
“That’s it,” I tell him quietly. “See how much better that is?”
He nods once, his eyes focusing on a far-off point on the wall. “It feels better.”
My heart warms. During the final pose, savasana, everyone sprawls on their mats. Silas stretches out with his chest still heaving, eyes closed, looking more at ease than I've ever seen him.
For just a moment, he looks almost peaceful.
I sneak a glance from my own mat and he catches me, cracking one eye open. The corners of his mouth curl up ever so slightly.
"This isn't terrible," he admits, voice low.
My heart does a stupid flip in my chest. “I’m glad.”
After class I insist on smoothies from the juice bar next door. I’m ready to plead with him to get the smoothie teasingly named the Toxic Sludge. But Silas orders one after looking at the menu for approximately two seconds. He sees my raised eyebrows.
“What? My diet is 90% kale and Greek yogurt. When I see it on the menu, I always go for the kale.”
“Interesting.” I give him a once-over. Even after the intense yoga class, he might as well be a supermodel. His tousled hair is tied back, his cheekbones sharp enough to cut, and he wears his sweatpants and soft-looking sweatshirt like they were made for him.
We sit at a small table by the window.
"I feel like I got hit by a truck." His voice has less edge than usual, almost relaxed.
“Yeah?” I hide my grin behind my smoothie. “You look like you just smoked pot for the first time.”
He shoots me a sly look. “That would be a first.”
“Wait, you haven’t smoked pot? Not even in college?”
“Nope.” He smiles into his smoothie. “I’ve always had drug tests hanging over my head. It’s not worth stressing myself out.”
“Wowww. You know, I’ve known you for years. But I’m still learning all kinds of things about you, Silas.”
“Stick around. Next I’ll juggle a pile of flaming chainsaws.”
“Look who has jokes all of the sudden.” I bite my lip, leaning in and smiling. “You need to do yoga more often.”
We're quiet for a minute, comfortable in the silence. People flow past the window outside while morning light streams through the glass, warm on my face. I glance at him.
“Tell me something.”
“Like what?” He takes the final sip of his smoothie and then nudges his cup away. “Something funny? Or something serious?”
Playing with my straw, I shrug. “Whichever one you feel like.”
He stares off into the distance for a moment. “I had a dream about my mom.”
That’s not what I expected him to say at all. “Yeah?”
His head bobs. “You know about the whole extortion thing?”
Silas is referring to the fact that his mom went to jail last year over continued attempts to extort money from his brother Hunter. From what I read, Silas’s mom managed all the brothers’ money at one point and likely stole from all of them. I nod slowly. “A little.”
Silas purses his lips.
"My mom liked to draw. Sketches mostly. Landscapes, buildings, people's faces.
" He stares at his smoothie cup like it might hold answers.
"After she left, after everything came out about the embezzlement and the extortion, I threw all her drawings away.
I thought it would hurt less if I erased her completely. "
My throat goes tight. I set down my cup carefully, giving him space to continue or stop.
"It didn't help. I still thought about her. I missed her even though I was so fucking angry. Am, actually. I am so angry at her. It really pisses me off that I had a nice dream about her. She doesn’t deserve that."
"You're allowed to miss her and be angry at the same time," I say softly. "Those things can exist together."
He nods once with this tiny gesture of vulnerability.
"I regret throwing the drawings away," he admits. "They were good. She was talented. That part of her was real even if everything else was a lie."
I reach across the table and stop just short of touching his hand. The choice is his whether he wants the contact. He doesn't pull away, just stares at where our hands almost meet.
"Thank you for telling me," I say.
"Yeah." He clears his throat and pulls back, pointing at his smoothie. "This is still disgusting, by the way. Kale or no kale, I wish I had gotten something fruity."
I laugh and the tension breaks. "Noted. Next time I'll get you something better."
He glances at me. "So there's going to be a next time?"
"Absolutely. I'm dragging you to hot yoga every week now. It's happening."
He groans but there's something in his eyes that looks almost like affection. "You're the worst."
"You like it."
"I really don't."
His mouth curves slightly. I'll take it.