Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Scout
The ferry cuts through dark gray water, steady as a heartbeat under my boots.
Seattle fades into haze behind us while wind needles across the car deck, keeping my cheeks cold and my thoughts anything but clear.
I stand with my gloves tucked under my arms and pretend I'm not cataloging every detail of Silas Huxley's body.
Juliet dispatched Silas to Vashon Island, about an hour from downtown Seattle, to help with a charity drive event the island puts on every winter.
Because I live with Silas and need to make sure he takes it easy and doesn't strain his shoulder, of course I volunteered to keep him company.
It just makes sense for me to accompany him rather than Juliet in her role as public relations manager.
Not at all because I want to see what Silas will be like outside of the rink and without the pressure the Havoc brings.
That would be crazy.
Silas leans against the bulkhead a few feet away, hood pulled up over his Havoc cap, hands loose in his pockets.
Even dressed down in jeans and a hoodie, everything about him screams athlete.
The hoodie's charcoal gray, stretched tight across his chest and shoulders, the fabric pulling at the seams when he shifts.
His dirty blond hair falls in those messy waves beneath the cap's brim, catching the weak sunlight filtering through clouds.
Those blue-gray eyes scan the horizon with that focused intensity he brings to everything.
Pure controlled power, even at rest. Coiled and ready despite the injured shoulder.
The width of his shoulders blocks wind from reaching me.
His thighs strain against dark denim when he shifts his weight, muscle evident even through heavy fabric.
The scruff along his jaw is a few days old, making him look rugged instead of polished.
He's beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with being pretty and everything to do with his masculine presence.
I force myself to look at the water instead.
A deckhand swings past with a coil of line, does a double take, then grins. "You're Huxley, right? Number twenty-three?"
Silas draws a quiet breath, and I watch his chest expand with it. "That's my brother Hunter. I'm number twelve."
"Right, right, sorry. Big fan." The guy fumbles for his phone, cheeks reddening. "Can I...?"
That muscle in Silas's jaw flexes, the one that makes me want to trace it with my fingertip.
He nods once. They angle toward better light near the stairwell.
For three seconds, he gives the camera a neutral half-smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
When the deckhand disappears down the ladder well, Silas's gaze finds mine immediately, like he's been aware of exactly where I was standing the entire time.
"Got your boss hat?" His voice is lower than necessary, rough from the cold or something else. "Since I fully expect you to boss everyone around."
"You know what? I've got my medical clearance clipboard." I keep my tone light even though my pulse kicks up when he steps closer. "And a mean glare if you try to lift something you shouldn't."
"You could try." He's close enough now that I can smell him over the salt air. Cedar and something clean, masculine.
I raise my chin defiantly. "I could succeed."
His eyes drop to my mouth for a fraction of a second before returning to the horizon. The wake spreads behind us in a foamy V while a gull hangs weightless over the stern. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, aware of how his gaze tracks the movement.
Yeah, I need to change the subject, stat.
"Juliet says the rec center's been organizing the Winter Warm-Up Drive for twenty years. Coat and blanket donations, kids' boot fittings, and a mini market for fundraising."
He watches the shoreline pull closer, but I catch him looking at me in his peripheral vision. "You say that like I'm going to enjoy it."
"You might. It's a lot of people. Not all of them bite."
"They're missing out." The way he says it, low and almost predatory, sends heat straight through me. My eyebrows rise.
"Was that a joke?"
Silas rubs his hand over his mouth. "Maybe."
"I didn't know you made jokes. You know, I wondered if you were going to be weird away from the ice. But I never thought you'd be funny."
"I'm an enigma," he says, looking off over the water. I catch the smirk on his lips, though.
Oh, this is a side of him I've never seen before. And it might be more deadly than his usual growly, alpha asshole-ness. Be still my freaking heart.
The captain announces our approach over the loudspeaker.
As we file toward the gangway with other foot passengers, Silas stays close behind me, close enough I feel his body heat.
His hand hovers near my lower back when someone jostles past, not quite touching but there, protective.
The gesture shouldn't affect me but it does.
Come on, self. Pull it together, I think. Not everything he does can be swoon-worthy.
The town spreads before us like a postcard once we dock. Two blocks of storefronts with cedar shingles, dark firs pressing in at the edges. The rec center sits at the end of the street, a brick building with paper snowflakes taped to the windows and a banner reading KEEP WARM, STAY KIND.
Inside, the gym smells like wet wool and coffee. Volunteers bustle around sorting donations while children's voices echo off the walls. Silas shoulders through the vestibule and freezes when three elementary schoolers stare at him with open mouths.
"Is that a Seattle Havoc player?" one whispers loudly. "He's on my poster!"
I step between them and Silas, accidentally brushing against his chest. He goes rigid at the contact, but now's not the moment for Silas and me to size each other up. The kids are still whispering amongst themselves.
"Don't crowd," I tell the group gently. "Mr. Huxley will be around. He's here to help."
The kids gawp at me as if I just confirmed that Santa was real and would be making an appearance.
I glance at Silas over my shoulder. The look he gives me is pure heat disguised as irritation.
It feels like a physical touch and I have to look away before I do something stupid like lean back into him.
The coordinator, a brisk woman with bright eyes, hands us clipboards. "You're here! Thank god. We weren't sure the Havoc assignments would show."
"What?" Silas scowls at her. "Of course we're here."
"What he means is," I say, smiling pointedly at Silas. "We're here to help. Put us to work, coach. Just no heavy lifting for him, please."
She nods. "Boot stations on the tables over there, coats over by the far wall, blankets on the tables in between. Media arrives in an hour. Try not to vanish before then."
"I'll tie him to a chair if I have to," I say. Immediately regretting the image that puts in my head. Silas, squirming, at my mercy. God help me.
"Good girl," she beams before rushing off.
"She seems friendly," Silas grunts. He watches her go with a suspicious expression.
I wave his comment off. "She's a busy lady. Come on, let's help her get these boxes sorted before people start arriving."
Silas follows me to the coat tables, shrugging out of his jacket in one fluid movement that makes his shirt ride up, revealing a strip of skin above his jeans. I look away quickly but not before he catches me looking. He smirks as he lifts a box.
"Light stuff," I warn. My voice comes out breathier than intended.
He snorts, then immediately proves me right when the box tilts sideways and mittens cascade everywhere. A five-year-old in a purple jacket gasps at the tragedy. Silas freezes halfway between embarrassment and cursing.
"Emergency," I gasp, being dramatic. "Mittens down!"
Purple Jacket scrambles to help while I crouch next to Silas to gather the spillage. Our hands brush as we both reach for the same mitten. The contact jolts through me like static electricity. His fingers linger against mine for a heartbeat before pulling away.
Silas surrenders the mittens to a volunteer for careful sorting. When he stands, I'm still crouched, which puts me at eye level with his hips. I stand too quickly, stumbling slightly. His hand shoots out to steady me, gripping my elbow. Even through my sweater, his touch burns.
The corner of his mouth tilts up. I have the insane urge to kiss him right there in front of children and volunteers and God himself. Big problem. Huge problem. I step away, my fingers tingling. Silas coughs and moves on.
I’m making this weird. I really need to get my shit together.
An hour blurs past in a rush of activities. Matching kids with boots in their size. Helping an elderly woman select a warm coat. Organizing blanket bundles for distribution. Through it all, Silas stays close. Not hovering, but present.
When a father thanks him for the autograph, Silas signs without the usual grimace. When kids cluster around asking about hockey, he actually answers their questions. Patience replaces his normal gruffness.
I watch him crouch to a child's eye level, explaining how to hold a hockey stick properly using a broom handle. Something warm and soft blooms in my chest. This version of Silas, patient and kind, feels more dangerous than the Ice Man persona he wears at the arena.
The media arrives, cameras flashing, and Silas handles the questions with practiced ease. I stand slightly behind him, watching how he deflects praise to the community, mentions the rec center's twenty-year legacy, and thanks the volunteers.
Professional and polished. Nothing like the growly man who barely speaks to me even though I live in the same condo.
When the last reporter packs up, the coordinator thanks us profusely. "You two are wonderful together. Such a lovely couple."
"Oh, we're not..." I start.
"We work together," Silas finishes, but his hand finds the small of my back again.