Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Scout
My arms are full again. Story of my life. Four coffees rattle in a cardboard tray balanced on my left hand. Practice schedules press against my chest. A roll of hockey tape is wedged between my elbow and ribs because someone asked for it and I've already forgotten who.
I'm basically a walking supply closet at this point.
The Havoc hallway hums with post-loss tension.
Skates scrape concrete. Voices echo. The stench of sweat and rubber permeates everything.
Hockey pads get this uniquely awful smell, collectively a truly terrible stench that’s stomach-churning.
Everywhere that a door can be propped open with a huge fan has one full blast, blowing the smell around so that it’s somewhat tolerable in the locker rooms and gym.
The locker room has a certain we lost and everyone's pissy about it vibe going on.
Hunter Huxley paces like a caged bear with a grudge.
Beck Tate mutters curses while ripping tape off his stick like it personally offended him.
Jett Huxley barks orders at rookies. Grayson Reed laughs too loud at nothing until Beck tells him to shut the hell up.
Connor Li tapes his stick in silence, probably wishing he could teleport somewhere else.
Same, Connor. Same.
Juliet Monroe is the only thing keeping this powder keg from exploding. She moves through the room with her clipboard, smoothing tensions like some kind of hockey whisperer. The giant sapphire on her ring finger catches the light every time she gestures, which is often.
She's married to Hunter "the Chainsaw" Huxley, and somehow they work. Tiny, composed Juliet and her massive, scowling husband. I've watched them together when they think no one's looking. The way she whispers in his ear and he softens against her like warm butter.
That used to be me and Enzo. Or at least, I thought it was. Turns out what I had was a cheating husband and what Juliet has is actual love.
The difference is pretty stark.
I shake off the thought and get to work. Coffee delivery time. I slide into the locker room unnoticed, which is my specialty. Being helpful without being seen. It's basically my superpower.
"Here you go," I say to the room at large. "Good luck tonight. You'll destroy them."
Most players don't even look up. I'm furniture to them. The Coffee Chair. The Schedule Table. Very useful, totally invisible.
Except Connor, who glances up and mumbles, "Thanks, Scout."
I beam at him like he just handed me a Nobel Prize instead of two words of basic human decency. Pathetic? Maybe. But I'll take what I can get.
I slip out before anyone can see me having feelings about it.
I'm halfway down the corridor when I hear footsteps behind me.
Heavy and purposeful. I glance back and catch Hunter's eye. He gives me a slight smile, the kind that reminds me of the big brother I never had. His expression makes me feel safe for just a second. Juliet trusts him. I’ve come to trust Juliet.
Therefore, I innately trust this massive goliath she calls her husband.
Hunter’s gaze shifts past me and his face hardens.
"Silas," he calls out, voice carrying down the hall. "Quit."
I don't hear a response, but I feel the weight of eyes on my back. My spine straightens. I know that Silas is staring at me. Too many times in the past few weeks, I've felt the weight of that stare.
I don't know what he could possibly want with me. Silas has made it crystal clear that I'm not important. What does Hunter want him to quit?
I can’t begin to guess, so I keep moving.
Near the training room, I spot Connor again.
He's rolling his shoulder, wincing like something hurts.
The movement is stiff and compensating. I recognize it immediately.
Tight pec minor, probably from overuse. I've seen it a hundred times in textbooks and clinical observations before I dropped out of studying kinesiology.
"Hey." I set down my stack of schedules on a nearby bench. "Your shoulder okay?"
“Me?” Connor looks surprised that I'm talking to him. It’s almost as if he wasn’t as tall, ripped, and dreamy-looking as the rest of his team. His shyness must be a rookie thing. "Yeah, it's just... I don't know. It feels like my shoulder is stuck or something."
"Can I take a look?"
His brows shoot up, but he nods right away. “Sure, yeah.”
I step closer, pressing my fingers just below his collarbone. I feel the knot immediately, hard and angry under the skin. "You're tight here. It's pulling your shoulder forward and making your rotation feel locked."
"Can you fix it?"
I hesitate. This isn't my job. I'm not a member of the medical staff. I'm not even supposed to be touching players without supervision. But he's looking at me like I might actually be able to help. And it's been so long since anyone looked at me like that.
"Sit," I say. "Please."
He does. I guide him through a doorway stretch, talking him through the position until he feels the pull in the right spot. Then I grab a lacrosse ball from the equipment bin and show him how to do a pec release against the wall. His relief is immediate.
"Holy shit," he breathes, rotating his arm. "That's so much better."
"Keep doing that twice a day. And make sure you ice your right upper quadrant after practice." I'm already gathering my things, cheeks warm with something that feels like pride. "You should probably tell the trainers if it doesn't improve, though."
"Thanks, Scout. Seriously. You're a lifesaver."
I beam at him again, that small glow of being useful spreading through my chest. Using what I actually know instead of just fetching coffee and making copies feels good. Then I turn and nearly run straight into Juliet.
"Oh!" I smile at her, tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear. "Sorry. I know that I'm supposed to go grab lunch for the office soon. Do you need me to go now?"
Juliet studies me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. I feel like I'm about to get into trouble.
"Walk with me," she says. She’s already moving down the hallway, her high heels clicking.
My pulse jumps as I fall into step beside her. Did I overstep? I'm not medical staff. Maybe I shouldn't have touched Connor. Shit. I shouldn't have given him advice without clearing it first.
“Juliet…” I start as we reach the elevator bank. “If I’m overstepping…”
“Not at all. In my office, please.” She guides me inside and presses a button. “I would just prefer a little more privacy when we talk. People are so nosy here.”
“...okay?” I say. I’m not sure what that means.
The elevator doors open and it’s only a few steps down the hall until we reach her office. She ushers me in and closes the door. Double shit. She must be about to ream me out. I wince, rushing to explain myself.
"If this is about Connor..."
Juliet interrupts me, cutting off my explanation with a wave of her hand.
"I’m not trying to get you in trouble, Scout. How long have you been doing that?" Juliet asks.
I’m impossibly confused. "Doing what?"
"Soft tissue work. Mobility assessments." Her voice is calm, curious rather than accusing. "I saw you with Connor."
"Ah." My throat tightens. "Like I said, I studied kinesiology in school. I know some things. I was just trying to help. I'm so sorry if I overstepped."
She leans against her desk, arms crossed, studying me like I'm a puzzle she's trying to solve.
"You also teach yoga, right?"
My cheeks warm. "Yeah. I haven't led a class in a while, but that's part of my kinesiology practice. Very... holistic."
She pushes her cheek out with her tongue, studying me as if seeing me for the first time. "So tell me. If you could design a program for this team, what would it look like?"
"Oh, easy." The words tumble out before I can stop them.
"Mobility Mondays. Twenty minutes post-practice of targeted work based on position and common injury patterns.
Hip flexors for forwards who need speed.
T-spine mobility for shooting mechanics.
Shoulder capsule work for injury prevention.
" I'm talking with my hands now, gesturing to my body as I talk about each part like I'm presenting to a class.
"We could track baselines, measure range of motion improvements.
I'd tie it directly to on-ice performance metrics. "
Then I stop, breathless, heat flooding my face. "But that's... I mean, I'm not qualified. I'm not a licensed PT. I didn't finish the program."
Juliet's mouth curves into something that might be approval.
"You seem to know more than most of these players do about their own bodies.
And right now, we're hemorrhaging games to soft tissue issues and fatigue penalties. I don’t know if you keep up with the staffing around here, but we lost two of our best trainers this year to retirement and maternity leave.
" She straightens, picking up her tablet.
"So I would like you to write up your program.
Scope, key performance indicators, risk mitigation.
Show me what it would actually look like. "
My heart hammers against my ribs. "You're serious?"
"I'm always serious about winning. And if this keeps even one player out of the medical bay, it's worth exploring.
I happen to be married to a particularly injury-prone player.
Anything to keep him off the IR list helps.
" She glances at her tablet, then back at me.
"Send me a proposal. I'll take it to the coaches. "
"Juliet, I..." My voice catches. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. You have to convince Coach Cross first." But there's warmth in her voice. Her approval makes my chest swell with something dangerous. Hope.
I float out of her office with my mind already spinning. Plans and metrics and proof. Structure and purpose to my life. The chance to actually use my brain for something that matters instead of just making myself useful in ways that anyone could do.