Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Scout
Tuesday morning, I move through the corridor with my tote bag, clipboard tucked against my ribs, headset cord brushing my cheek.
I've already solved two fires before coffee. I located a missing mouthguard for one of the rookies. I swapped out an allergy-friendly snack box for another because Shane doesn’t like hummus.
After the saga with Silas, reality came back with a vengeance.
For one heart-shattering moment, I thought he might not be okay.
But he made it through surgery fine. When Juliet left his hospital room, I went with her.
It's not like I had any compelling reason to be there.
Other than a shared past, one that we definitely don't talk about.
So I went back to work on Mobility Mondays. The world moved on and I have to keep pace with it. By this point, I've drafted so many versions of my proposal I can recite it word for word from memory. It's still imperfect, but it's as good as I'm going to get.
I'm about to enter the coaches' conference room when I spot Silas and Hunter ahead of me in the hallway. Silas's right arm sits in a sling, and he moves with the careful precision of someone trying not to show pain. His jaw's tight, shoulders rigid beneath his dress shirt.
Hunter mutters something and Silas snaps at him. "I said I've got it."
"Asshole," Hunter says. "You had surgery nine days ago. Let me help you."
Silas spots me and his expression hardens. The look he shoots me could slice a lesser woman in two. But I've known this stubborn jerk for years. He's always hostile. You just have to work around it if you want to deal with Silas.
People call him Ice Man, but I've seen glimpses of something else underneath.
The way he watches players when they're struggling, mentally noting their weak spots so he can adjust his game to cover for them.
How he arrives at the arena before dawn and leaves after everyone else, like hockey's the only thing keeping him upright.
He's not cold. He's scared of being anything else.
"Hey!" I say, rushing toward him. "You're already up and around after surgery?"
His expression's flat and standoffish. "Clearly."
"Hey," Hunter says in greeting. "Don’t mind him. Were you headed to the coach's office?"
"Yeah. We're supposed to have a meeting at ten."
Silas arches an icy brow. "You must have the wrong time. Cross told me to be here at ten."
"Oh!" My cheeks warm. "Yeah, maybe I got the time wrong."
"Dude. Shut up," Hunter says, looking at Silas. He sighs. "He's going without pain meds, so he's extra grumpy today."
Silas grunts. “Am not.”
I nod. "Right. Well, should we go in? We can figure out who’s supposed to be where."
“Great.” Hunter checks his watch. "I have to get downstairs. I have a check in with my trainer before the optional skate."
"Good. Stop buzzing around me." Silas waves his hand dismissively.
Hunter loses his temper. "Sure. I normally leave family members who've just had surgery in the fucking hallway like they're garbage."
"I can help!" I jump in. "Since we're both going to the same place."
"Are you sure?" Hunter asks. "He's extra feisty today."
"It would be my pleasure." I smile at Hunter, hoping he can feel my sincerity.
"When my arm's healed, I'm going to kill both of you," Silas says.
"Yeah, yeah." Hunter heads off down the hallway, calling over his shoulder. "Don’t threaten anybody else, bro. Text me if you need me, Scout!"
"Traitor," Silas whispers under his breath.
I turn to sweep my gaze over Silas and frown.
His chin-length dirty blond locks are unstyled and rumpled, falling across his forehead in a way that would be endearing if he weren't glaring at me.
His button-up's misbuttoned and wrinkled, hanging awkwardly over the sling.
He's a big guy—six foot eight of muscle and barely controlled irritation—and a very handsome one at that, but hostility rolls off him in waves.
Those blue-gray eyes are harder than usual, probably from pain and lack of sleep.
"Let me get the door," I say, reaching past him for the handle.
He jerks away from me like I've burned him. "I don't need help."
The words are sharp enough to cut. His eyes are flat and cold, daring me to argue.
"I wasn't—" I start, but he's already shouldering the door open with his good side, teeth clenched against what must be significant pain.
I follow him in, heat climbing my neck. The room's already tense when we enter.
Coach Cross sits at the head of the conference table.
Beck Tate claims the seat to his right, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
An analytics kid I don't know hunches over a tablet, tapping through data.
Juliet sits at the far end with her legal pad and one foot tucked under her chair.
Ivy exudes stress, tapping her pen against the table.
Assistant coaches Ryan and Pat scribble notes. No one seems happy.
Silas drops into a chair near the door, trying to look casual despite the awkward angle of his sling. I can't stop watching him from the corner of my eye. The way he shifts carefully, the micro-expressions of pain he's trying to hide. He's not fooling anybody.
"Good. You're both here." Cross looks between us. "How do you feel, Silas?"
Silas clears his throat. "Uh, fine."
"No, you're not fine." Juliet looks up. "You're staying with us. Somebody has to take care of you."
Silas sits up straighter. "No. I'm going back to my condo after I leave here."
"Like hell you are," Juliet says. "I heard you cursing while you were trying to get dressed this morning. Our walls are very thin."
Silas drums his fingers on the conference table. "Another reason I should leave."
"Everyone, shut up." Cross doesn't exactly shout, but his voice rings with authority. "Let's start with Scout's program proposal. Then we'll circle back to Silas."
Juliet smiles and nods at me. My stomach does cartwheels.
"Scout here has a degree in sports medicine. And she's a certified yoga teacher. I've watched her take care of players with aches and pains before. I think we're crazy not to use her as a resource. Scout, do you want to explain the proposal?"
Beck narrows his eyes, drumming his fingers on the conference table. The room shifts. Their attention lands on me like a spotlight I didn't ask for. Heat prickles the back of my neck. My hands want to shake, but I force them to be still.
I start, voice steadier than I feel. "Right.
I want to start Mobility Mondays. The scope would be twenty minutes post-practice, once a week.
We'd focus on hips, thoracic spines, and shoulder capsules.
I'd take notes to track key performance indicators.
Things like subjective soreness ratings, missed practice minutes, measurable improvements in hip internal and external rotation, and shoulder range of motion from baseline to goal.
Plus I'd ask a two-question mood check to track the players' mental state. "
"I see. How does yoga figure into your plan?" Coach Cross asks.
I nod, getting into the swing of it now.
Talking about one of my passions helps steady my nerves.
"I see yoga as a corrective tool. You obviously can't fix an athlete's pain by having them do one position once.
I'd assess what a player needs, teach them poses that help strengthen muscles, and track their pain.
In addition, I'd assign homework. Hockey players already stretch at home.
The more often they incorporate my suggestions into their home routines, the better the outcomes will be. "
Assistant coach Pat snorts. "We're not a yoga studio. We need hits, not hamstring stretches."
The dismissal stings but I don't let it show. "You need both. Looser hips mean faster first steps off the line. Better thoracic spine rotation means cleaner exits under pressure. And fewer penalties born from fatigue and compensating movement patterns."
"My suggestion is that we have a trial for eight weeks," Juliet says decisively. "If the numbers don't move, we can reconvene."
Cross nods once. "Done. Mobility Mondays it is."
Relief floods through me for half a second before Cross's expression darkens.
"Now, the other issue." His eyes land on Silas. "We need to discuss your shoulder."
Silas stiffens in his chair. "It's fine."
"The MRI results say otherwise," Beck cuts in. "Grade two separation. Partial rotator cuff tear. You're looking at a minimum of eight weeks. And that's if you don't make it worse."
"I said it's fine." Silas glares at Beck.
"You can barely lift your arm," Ryan observes. "You need round-the-clock care for at least a few weeks. Basic tasks are going to be impossible. And your current situation, staying with Hunter and Juliet, isn’t going to cut it."
"The sports medicine wing of the hospital has an excellent rehab facility," Cross says. "That would be the best decision. You'd have professional medical supervision."
The temperature in the room drops. Silas's face goes from stoic to thunderous in a heartbeat.
"Absolutely not." His voice is granite. "I'm not moving into a facility. That's a terrible suggestion."
"It's not really a suggestion. You don't have a choice," Ivy says gently. "You can't even button your own shirt right now."
I watch him, this prideful man trying so hard not to show weakness. His jaw works like he's grinding glass between his teeth. The sling holds his arm at an awkward angle. I can see the strain in his neck from compensating.
I could fix that. Or at the very least, manage his symptoms.
Coach Cross speaks up. "What if we had someone move into your home to help you, Silas?"
Silas's eyes narrow to slits. "What do you mean?"
"I'm talking about Scout." Cross tilts his head at me. "She has training in this area. Right?"
My face starts burning, but I nod. "Absolutely. I could help out." My voice comes out smaller now but committed. "I have sports medicine training. I understand hockey injuries."
"But would you be willing to do it full time?" Ivy asks, leaning forward. "Otherwise we should just put him in the facility. It's a significant commitment."
Silas goes rigid. "I am not being put anywhere!"
"Easy." Cross tries to take the anger down a notch. "It's either Scout moves in with you, or you stay at the rehab facility."
Ryan looks between Silas and me, then sighs. "Actually, that might work. If Scout's willing to move in temporarily, say a month or two, we could avoid the rehab facility situation. She's trained in sports medicine, as we just established. She'd know exactly what recovery protocols to follow."
"Absolutely not," Silas repeats, but there's less force behind it.
"Silas, be serious." Cross studies him. "Live at your house with Scout or at the hospital. I know what I’d choose."
Silas looks like he's swallowing broken glass. His eyes find mine, angry as a thunderclap, searching for something I don't understand. The silence stretches until my chest feels tight.
"She'd be better than the hospital," he finally grinds out.
"Then it's settled," Juliet says, already making notes.
"We'll work out the arrangements. Scout, you'll need to be compensated appropriately for this.
It's way above and beyond your regular duties.
We're talking a substantial bonus for the inconvenience of relocating temporarily. And for… you know, dealing with him."
"Uhh... sure?" I squeak. "Whatever you need."
Ivy nods. "I'll have HR draft up the paperwork. Hazard pay, essentially. You're giving up your personal life for the team." She turns to Silas. “And you. You’d better be nice to Scout. If I were you, I’d be thanking my lucky stars that you have someone so accommodating who’s willing to stay at home with me while I recuperate.”
Silas glares at the table, muttering something I think could be interpreted as thanks.
My mouth goes dry. I jumped without looking because I saw Silas suffering, hating the idea of strangers witnessing his vulnerability. Now reality's setting in. I just volunteered to move in with Silas Huxley.
The very same man who alternates between ignoring me and making me feel like my skin's too tight.
"We'll get you moved in today," Juliet continues, all business. "We'll get everything sorted. Keys, security codes, medical supplies."
I force myself to look at Silas. He's still staring at the table like he wants to set it on fire with his mind.
"Is that... okay with you?" I ask quietly.
He doesn't look up. "Does it matter?"
Juliet and Ivy keep talking, making arrangements, discussing logistics and timelines. But all I can think about is what I've just agreed to. I'm going to be living with Silas, taking care of him when he can barely stand to be in the same room as me.
I wasn't thinking when I volunteered. I just couldn't bear the thought of anyone in pain.
Now I have to hope there's a soft place to land when I get to his condo.