Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Scout
Living with Silas means my job has evolved from fetch coffee for everyone to babysit one extremely grumpy defenseman. It's not exactly the career advancement I dreamed of, but at least I only have to deal with one giant man-child instead of thirty.
Small victories.
I'm at the arena gym, hovering near Silas while he rides an exercise bike and glowers at the wall like it personally insulted him. I'm supposed to be working on my Mobility Monday instructions, but it's hard to concentrate when Ice Man over there looks like he's plotting the bike's murder.
Silas is my responsibility now. Coach Cross made that crystal clear. Monitor him. Keep him from doing something stupid that sets back his recovery. Make sure he doesn't hulk out and destroy equipment.
I can do all of those things. If Silas would stop snarling at me every five minutes, anyway.
One of the newer trainers, a guy named Mike who looks about twelve years old, sidles up to me. "Hey, will you grab me an almond milk latte? I went out too late last night and I'm fading."
I smile. "I would normally say yes, but I'm not doing coffee runs today. I have to stay here."
Coach Ryan walks into the gym. He's tall, dark, and has that ex-pro-athlete thing going on. His blue eyes land on me and Mike.
Apparently oblivious to his boss watching, Mike frowns. "Listen, sweetheart. Your job is to get me coffee when I say so. That's your entire reason for existing. So run along."
He makes a shooing motion. My face heats. I smile even though what I really want is to kick him in the shins.
"That's not my job today—"
"Mike!" Coach Ryan growls. "Surely you have work to do."
"I was just telling her to grab me a coffee," Mike explains, completely missing the danger he's in.
"It's fine!" It comes out squeaky. "I can text Jessa. She's picking up slack while I work with Silas."
"Don't move." Coach points at Mike. "Is there a reason you think you're better than her?"
Mike goes pale. "Uh, no..."
"You're the lowest man here, Mike. From now on, you get your own coffee. You come in ready to work. And for fuck's sake, you don't tell my employees what their job is. Scout reports directly to me now. That makes her higher than you. Now get to work before I start rethinking your employment."
"Yes, Coach," Mike mutters, scurrying away like a scolded puppy.
Ryan rolls his eyes. "Amateur. I bet he washes out in a few months."
"Let's hope not." I clear my throat. "Thanks for the rescue."
"Coach Cross told me to look out for you." His lips curl. "Now go work on Mobility Mondays. Silas will be busy here for a couple hours."
I nod and pull a chair over by the doorway, settling in to multitask. Watch Silas. Work on my tablet. Try not to stare at Silas. Fail at not staring at Silas.
The gym has a few other injured players doing rehab, but most of the action's around my favorite grumpy patient. Two trainers hover over him, guiding him through resistance bands and balance drills. Silas looks miserable and rigid, jaw tight with frustration.
He also looks unfairly good. The black workout shirt clings to everything. Sweat slides down his neck. His hair's pulled back, showing off that sharp jaw and those blue-gray eyes that refuse to meet mine.
Even injured and furious, he's stupidly attractive. It's honestly offensive.
He always has been. Eight years ago I asked him out and he turned me down flat. End of mortifying story.
But watching him now, I can see through the Ice Man act.
Everyone calls him cold, emotionless, a machine.
I see the way his left hand flexes when he can't complete a movement with his right.
The micro-grimace when pain flashes before he locks it down.
How he counts reps under his breath like numbers are the only thing keeping him sane.
He's not emotionless. He's just terrified of showing emotion.
I shouldn't care. There are a dozen reasons to stop wishing Silas had said yes eight years ago. But here I am, finding excuses to check in. Bringing him water. Correcting his trainer when they suggest exercises that could hurt his shoulder.
Silas growls at me. His trainer thanks me.
Standard operating procedure.
You're supposed to be working, I scold myself. Stop staring at the angry giant.
Then I see him moving toward heavy dumbbells for lateral raises and I squeak, "What are you doing? Don't! That'll strain your stabilizers!"
Silas and his trainer both look up with matching are you kidding me expressions.
"I don't need a babysitter, Scout," Silas snaps. "Do me a favor and work somewhere else."
His tone stings. I plaster on a bright smile. "Sure thing. I'll just... go upstairs."
I walk off with as much dignity as I can muster. Which is not much.
Upstairs in the office, I throw myself into Mobility Mondays planning for a solid hour. Then I make a list of other suggestions and email them to Coach Ryan. Shifting travel meal schedules. Adjusting practice timing. Small things that might help players feel better.
Being useful is my superpower, after all.
When I drive Silas home, he's extremely short with me, growling every other word.
He moves so slowly getting into the car I have to wonder if it's because he's really hurting.
Or maybe he's just run ragged. When he closes his eyes and seems to fall asleep on the way home, I conclude it's more likely to be the latter.
The big caveman's just exhausted.
He disappears into his room when we get back, shutting the door and boxing me out.
Getting down to business, I prepare a sensible dinner of sliced chicken breast, pasta with pesto, and a large serving of asparagus.
I find myself hesitant to knock on his door.
What if he's still asleep? Will he yell at me?
Because I'm not sure what kind of state he's in, I leave a plate of pasta in Silas's kitchen before I retreat to my room. I leave no note, no explanation. It's food for someone who can't take care of himself.
Surely I can't be chastised for that.
I hear him come out of his room later. Cracking my door, I listen to the sounds of a fork scraping against a plate. He eats in silence, not looking for me, not saying thank you. I pretend I don't care.
He's cold as ice, colder than I remember him being. What can I do to thaw him a little bit?
My phone buzzes on my nightstand. I glance at it and my stomach drops.
Enzo.
Enzo
You still haven't picked up your stuff. I'm starting to think you're using my storage unit as a free service. Come get all of your shit out of my house, Scout.
I flip the phone over, jaw tight. I don't respond. There's no point. Enzo only texts when he wants to pick at a scab. When he needs to remind me I'm not worth the space I take up.
Another buzz a minute later. I almost ignore it but the name on the screen makes me reach for it.
Sable. My lovely big sister, older than me by a year, also lives in the city. She travels a lot for her job as a sports therapist, seeing patients in Vancouver and Portland as well as here in Seattle.
My sister's voice note is warm and excited.
Sable
Scout! I'm organizing a free clinic for athletes dealing with burnout and mental health stuff. I thought maybe you could help with the physical side? Mobility work, injury prevention? Let me know if you're interested!
I smile despite everything. Sable knows exactly how to brighten my day.
Me
That's amazing. Count me in. When you're back in the city, we should have lunch!
Sable
I miss your face! Let me text you some dates tomorrow.
Silas drifts through the hallway while I'm typing, shoulders massive in his t-shirt. He pauses just outside my door, long enough I know he can hear the audio playing. When I turn to acknowledge him, to maybe include him in the conversation, he mutters something under his breath and stalks away.
The door to his bedroom closes with a sharp click. I stare at the empty doorway, phone still in my hand, wondering what I did wrong this time.
Later, I unroll my yoga mat in the living room.
There's no amount of scowling Silas can do that will make me not do yoga.
My body slips into stretches on autopilot, long slow pulls that make tension leak out of my muscles.
My wild curls fall forward when I fold. I breathe through each pose, trying to find the quiet center I usually access through practice.
I feel him before I see him.
Silas stands in the hallway, watching. His gaze is heavy, almost scorching on my skin. I arch my back in a deep backbend, hands reaching for my feet. The stretch opens my chest, pulls tight through my hip flexors.
"Want to join?" I ask, my voice breathless.
His gaze lingers too long. His jaw goes tight. Then he turns on his heel and disappears down the hall without a word.
Heat blooms low in my stomach anyway. He’s way more of a jerk than I remembered him being, but it’s still hard to convince my body his being thorny means he isn’t crazy hot.
When I'm done, I shower and crawl into bed with my phone.
The apartment's quiet around me. Silas is locked away in his bedroom, probably counting Sudoku numbers or organizing his sock drawer by fiber content.
I think about texting Jessa but I'm not ready to explain the weirdness of living with a man who alternates between ignoring me and watching me like I'm a problem he's trying to solve.
Instead, I open the dating app. There's already a message waiting.
StatMan12
How was your day?
My chest warms. I type back quickly.
Yoga4Lyfe
Complicated. How was yours?
StatMan12
Frustrating. I'm not good at asking for help.
Yoga4Lyfe
You don’t seem like the type that would be.
StatMan12
Oh yeah? What have you noticed?
I bite my lip, considering. There's so much I could say. That he seems guarded. That he might push people away. But I stick with easier truths.
Yoga4Lyfe
You're careful. You don't let people in easily.
StatMan12
Guilty. But I let you in.
My heart skips.
Yoga4Lyfe
Why?
StatMan12