Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Scout
My presentation materials are arranged perfectly on the table in front of me, color coded and laminated because apparently I cope with stress by becoming aggressively organized.
The conference room is set up for this meeting.
Three months have passed since the studio opened and Mobility Mondays has been running smoothly.
I'm wearing my most professional outfit, a navy blazer over a white blouse and black slacks, my dark blonde curls pulled back in a sleek ponytail.
Juliet sits across from me, reviewing her notes while we wait for the others to arrive. She's been instrumental in helping me prepare this formal proposal to make the program permanent.
"Are you ready for this?" she asks.
I straighten my shoulders. "Absolutely."
She smiles and squeezes my hand. "It's gonna be great."
Coach Cross enters first, followed by Beck, the head trainer, two assistant coaches, and someone from the front office whose name I can never remember.
They settle into chairs with the kind of efficiency that says they have twelve other meetings today and limited patience for anything that wastes their time.
"All right, Scout," Coach Cross says. "Show us what you've got."
I stand without hesitation. My hands shake a little as I pull up my first slide on the screen. The old version of me would've started with an apology, some variation of 'I know you're busy' or 'this won't take long.' Instead, I dive straight into the data.
"Mobility Mondays has been running for three months.
Here are the results." I click to the next slide, showing injury rates, recovery times, and player feedback scores.
"We've seen a thirty percent reduction in soft tissue injuries, improved range of motion in eighty percent of participating players, and consistently positive feedback from both players and trainers. "
Beck leans forward. "It's been helpful. A lot of the players have been eager to participate."
"What about the cost?" asks the front office guy. "Do you have an estimate?"
"Going forward, the program requires two hours of dedicated studio time per week plus four hours of training time where I can correct posture and be hands-on. Based on the reduction in injury related missed games, you're looking at a return on investment within the first month."
The front office guy frowns. "Is this really necessary? Players can stretch on their own."
The old reflex rises, the urge to soften my stance, to offer compromises I don't mean. I swallow it down and meet his eyes directly.
"They can. But they don't. Not correctly, not consistently, and not with proper form.
" I pull up a video showing before and after flexibility assessments.
"This isn't about adding another obligation to their schedule.
It's about protecting your investment in these athletes.
Every game missed to preventable injury costs the organization thousands of dollars and potentially playoff positioning. "
Cross nods slowly. "What about players who don't want to participate?"
"It's optional but incentivized. Players who attend consistently get priority PT scheduling and first choice of recovery modalities." I click to my final slide. "This isn't about forcing anyone. It's about creating infrastructure that supports long term athletic performance."
Silence fills the room. My chest tightens, but I don't fill it with nervous chatter or additional justifications. I stand there and let them process, trusting that my work speaks for itself.
"I like it," Beck says finally. "The injury reduction alone makes it worthwhile."
Sam, the head trainer, speaks up. "We've been seeing really positive improvements. This seems like a no-brainer to me."
Cross looks around the table. "Anyone have serious objections?"
The front office guy shrugs. "If the numbers hold up, I'm convinced."
"Then we're approved for full implementation," Cross says. "Congratulations, Scout. You've created something valuable here."
The words land like sunshine after a storm. I thank them professionally, gather my materials, and manage to hold my composure until I'm alone in the elevator. Then I slump against the wall and exhale every ounce of tension I've been carrying.
I did it. I stood in my authority and claimed space for my ideas. The program's permanent. The studio's real. My career is actually happening.
When I get back to the condo, Silas is on the couch with his laptop. He looks up when I walk in, and the smile that spreads across his face makes my heart do something stupid.
"How'd it go?"
"They approved it." I drop my bag and practically run to him. "Full implementation. Permanent program. It's official."
He catches me when I launch myself at him, pulling me into his lap. "I knew they would. You were brilliant."
"You didn't even see the presentation."
"Didn't need to. I know you." He kisses me, slow and thorough. "I'm so proud of you, Pretty Girl."
We celebrate with takeout and champagne on the couch. Silas keeps looking at me with this expression I can't quite read. There's something intense there, something that makes butterflies erupt in my stomach.
"What?" I finally ask.
"I've been thinking," he says.
"That's dangerous."
"I know we've only been officially together for a few months.
I know you're still recovering from Enzo.
But I also know what I want." He takes my hand.
"I want you. Forever. I want to wake up next to you every morning.
I want to support your career and have you support mine.
I want kids eventually, if you want them. I want everything with you."
“We already talked about this.” I smile and pat his arm. “My answer is the same. Eventually, I do want to be Mrs. Huxley.”
“I like the sound of that.” He hesitates. “Am I pushing too hard again?"
I think about it. Really think about it. A year ago, the idea of remarrying would have sent me into a panic spiral. Marriage meant losing myself, meant becoming small and accommodating and disappearing into someone else's needs.
But with Silas, it doesn't feel like that. He's seen me at my worst and stayed. He's supported my career without trying to control it. He's done the work in therapy, been honest even when it's hard, shown up for me consistently without expecting me to shrink.
“Si.” My eyes get wet. "I love you so much. And you’re being so patient."
"I love you too." He kisses my forehead. "Even if you're making me wait to put a ring on it."
"You can still buy the ring. Just don't propose yet."
His eyebrows lift. "You want me to buy a ring?"
"I want you to be ready when I am." I grin at him. "Plus, I have opinions about what kind of ring I want. We should probably discuss that."
"You have opinions about your engagement ring?"
"Obviously. It's going to be on my hand forever. I should like it."
He laughs, the tension breaking. "Okay. Tell me about this ring."
Grinning at him, I lean my head against his chest. I’m not ready yet, but Silas’s excitement pushes me that much further along.