9. Solomon
NINE
SOLOMON
“You are capable and talented.”
I squeeze my eyes shut tight, trying to block out the ambient sounds outside of my car as the soft, calming, disembodied voice repeats herself.
“You are capable and talented.”
Did I say calming? Because honestly, she’s actually kinda creepy. There’s an almost alien quality to her voice, like she’s too positive, too gentle. No one talks like this in real life.
“You have the power within yourself to accomplish all that you desire.”
I roll my eyes and tear the earbuds from my ears. I know Em was just trying to help when she downloaded this crap to my phone, but it’s definitely not doing it for me.
I don’t actually think an affirmation app exists that will help me with my current difficulty. Namely, the gorgeous, stubborn, angry soccer player who wants nothing to do with me.
Who I’m going to have to touch in a matter of minutes.
I groan, rubbing a hand over my face. I’ve never been so nervous to do an athlete evaluation since I started my program. Granted, up until now I was usually shadowing another trainer, but the instructors in my program are really good about us getting hands on experience.
Of course, none of those athletes were Cecelia Ransom.
I’m so screwed.
If there was any doubt, seeing her on the soccer field yesterday proved to me exactly how much trouble I’m in.
A part of me had hoped that the universe might do me a solid and make her a bit less attractive when sweaty and exhausted from a tough practice.
I was dead wrong. If anything she looked even better, her eyes bright and cheeks flushed from exertion.
She had her hair up and out of the way, which meant I had a hell of a time keeping my eyes off her bare neck.
She has a little freckle right below her ear that I’m dying to—.
Jesus, man, get a hold of yourself, I think, pissed off at myself. I’m about to go inside and perform a physical evaluation on this girl. I need to be professional. Clinical. Sitting here thinking about how attracted I am to her is not going to help.
Besides, she most definitely is not reciprocating any positive feelings. Our short meeting yesterday told me two things, very clearly. One, is that Cecelia isn’t interested in working with me. And two, my actions at that party probably kept her from wanting to even talk to me.
When I’d mentioned us getting off on the wrong foot, something had flashed across her face. Something decidedly angry. Just for a second, then she seemed to carefully rearrange her features into a careless expression, but I’d seen it.
This isn’t the kind of thing I usually notice.
According to just about everyone who knows me, I’m generally pretty blind to the vast array of emotions people wear on their faces.
“A tragic inability to read the room,” Jay would call it.
How many times did I piss off my parents because I hadn’t been able to decipher the emotional intricacies of conversation when they’d dragged me to one of their networking functions?
But for some reason, it’s easier with Cecelia Ransome. Maybe because I’ve spent the last two years watching her whenever we were in the same room.
And now you’re sounding like a fucking creep, man, I think to myself, sighing as I reach for my bag on the passenger seat.
I have to get out of my head and focus on what needs to be done. The evaluation is an essential piece in developing a training routine for these athletes.
It doesn’t help that Coach Carla pulled me aside the day we were introduced to the team to reiterate how important it is that we keep Cecelia healthy.
“She’s been in the youth national team pipeline since she was a kid,” Coach said.
“That injury took her off the national U-20 team. But if we can get her healthy again, and keep her that way, she could easily be wearing a senior national team jersey in the next few years.”
If we can get her healthy again. No pressure, though.
Whether Cecelia wants to admit it or not, she needs help this season. There’s no way a person could come back from the kind of injury she had without a lot of effort and rehab, and it isn’t the kind of thing she can just do on her own.
Convincing her of that is obviously going to be the difficult part.
Once I’ve made my way inside the soccer facility, I manage to remember how to get to the treatment room. Anne, the team’s assistant trainer, is there, writing notes on a clipboard. She looks up and smiles when she sees me. “Hey, it’s Solomon, right?”
“Yeah.” I take her outstretched hand, trying not to visibly react. I’m not the biggest fan of touching strangers.
Anne seems pretty cool, though, and by the time she’s finished showing me around, I’m relieved she’s the one on the schedule today. Devon, the head trainer, had been intimidating as shit the few times we met.
“Anything you’re missing,” Anne says, pointing to a clipboard hanging on the wall, “tape, ice packs, whatever—just make a note of there so we can get it restocked.”
“Sounds good.”
She starts gathering up her things. “So, who are you scheduled to evaluate today?”
I list off the three girls. Her eyes widen a little when I get to Cecelia. “She’ll give you a hard time,” she says.
“Yeah, I’m kinda getting the impression she’s not crazy about the student trainer program.”
Anne tilts her head, as if thinking about that. “Ransome is awesome. Plays harder than anyone, trains longer, whatever she has to do. She’s one of the most dedicated athletes I’ve ever met.” Then she grins. “She also might be the most stubborn person on the planet.”
Thankfully, I manage to bite back the groan that wants to break free, because a throat clears a moment later and we both turn to see Cecelia standing in the doorway.
If Anne is feeling guilty that Cecelia might have heard her stubborn description, she doesn’t look it. She merely gives the athlete a stern look and instructs her to “be good,” before leaving the two of us alone in the room.
Cecelia looks just as happy to see me as she did the other day on the field. She has her arms crossed in a defensive posture and she’s not meeting my eyes.
“It’s nice to see you again,” I say in my most professional voice. “Have you been having any issues the training staff should know about?”
“Nope,” she says, popping the p.
I take a deep breath, trying to ignore the antagonism rolling off her in waves. “Let’s get started,” I tell her. “You can take a seat.”
She doesn’t say a word as she passes me and lowers herself into the chair, and she won’t meet my eye.
I look down at my clipboard as I take a seat on a rolling stool, figuring I’ll start with some questions. Maybe if I can get her talking the rest of this will be easier.
I ask her about her game—how long she’s been playing, her position, what she sees as her strengths. She gives one- or two-word answers, her voice flat. So much for making things easier. When I transition into questions about her injury, she somehow gets even colder.
“Were there any setbacks during your rehab?” I ask and she scowls, finally meeting my eye.
“Isn’t all of this in my file?”
“Some of it,” I concede. “But I notice that you haven’t talked to your trainers about any remaining pain you’re having.”
“Because I’m not having pain,” she bites out.
I know that’s bullshit—I saw her wince during her drills yesterday, more than once, and always when she was landing on her left leg.
“No swelling?” I press. “No instability?”
I think she might actually take a swing at me. “I’m fine.”
Okay, so Cecelia Ransome does not like to talk about her injury. I wonder if that’s just me or if she’s this closed off with the rest of the training staff. That would be pretty dangerous.
“Let’s move on to the rest of your body,” I say, flipping a page on my clipboard.
“Goody,” she mutters and I find myself biting back a smile in spite of myself. It sucks that she’s taking it out on me, but it sounds like Anne wasn’t exaggerating—Cecelia is stubborn as hell.
I ask her about concussion history, previous sprains, and her nutrition plan. More one-word answers. More sighs. She seems determined for me to see how very little she wants to be here. By the time we’re ready for the physical portion of the evaluation, I feel just as tense as she looks.
“I’m going to have you do some movements for me,” I tell her. “Let’s start with body weight squats.”
She stands without saying a word and drops into a squat. I direct her through a few reps before switching to single leg squats, then lunges, step-ups, and balancing on one leg. I keep my eyes on her knee, watching for any imbalance or hesitation, any signs of pain or favoring of the injured leg.
“Okay, let’s get you up on the table.”
She releases the longest, loudest sigh yet, but she climbs up onto the table without saying a word. I turn my back and grab a pair of gloves, taking a deep breath. I’m going to have to touch her now, and that has my heart pounding a little harder.
It’s not that I’m worried I won’t be able to keep things professional. It’s just hard to imagine being this close to her when it’s clear she’d like nothing more than to knock me on my ass.
I do some range of motion checks, moving her knee carefully as I bend, straighten, and rotate it. I keep my eyes on her face, looking for signs of pain, and nearly wince at the tight expression. She’s pissed.
I manage to ignore the tension ramping up between us and focus.
I’ve watched these tests plenty of times and done quite a few on my own so it’s easy enough to tap into the routine of it.
I tell myself that Cecelia is just another client, just someone who needs my help, and ignore how close our faces are as I take her through each movement.
“Tell me how you usually handle taping this knee.”
She grits her teeth. “I don’t.”
“You don’t tape it…at all?” She just shrugs, not meeting my eye. “Has anyone ever showed you how?” I press.
“I know how to do it.”
I stare at her, waiting for her to say more, to explain. When it becomes clear that isn’t happening, I clear my throat. “Tape can provide stability for the joint and relieve pain—”
“I know,” she snaps, sounding annoyed now. “I just don’t like wearing it, okay?’
I study her, confused. For someone as dedicated to her sport as she clearly is, it seems really fucking weird that she wouldn’t take advantage of every bit of assistance—
“You don’t want people to see it,” I blurt out as the truth hits me. Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t argue. “That’s it, isn’t it? You don’t want to draw attention to your injury.”
Something shifts in her face, making her look less stubborn and more…vulnerable, I think. “I just don’t like to wear it.”
I think for a moment, wondering how to handle this. “It’s your call, obviously. But I would think you’d want to do everything you can to give your knee support.”
A muscle in her jaw ticks and she looks away.
“How about this? We’ll tape it for today and you can decide if it helps.
If not, I’ll drop it.” When she doesn’t answer, I nudge her knee.
“It’s just your team out there today, right?
How many of them do you think will be wearing tape?
It’s not like you’ll be broadcasting anything to your opponents or—”
“Fine,” she snaps. “Tape my damn knee.” Then she grumbles something under her breath that I’m pretty sure sounds a lot like, “just fucking stop talking about it already.”
I bite back my grin as I get to work. I talk to her while I apply the KT tape, explaining what I’m doing and why so she can do it herself next time if a trainer isn’t around. She might not be thrilled about the idea of wearing it, but she does pay attention, so I’ll take it as a win.
“Okay, we should be all set,” I finally say, stepping away from the table.
I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed that the evaluation is done.
I put the tape away while Cecelia jumps off the exam table, already moving to the door.
I shake my head. I don’t think there’s any question that her reaction to this ending is one hundred percent relieved.
But she doesn’t leave the exam room like I thought she would. I arrange my notes, getting ready for the next athlete, and watch her out of the corner of my eye. She’s standing by the door, fidgeting, like she’s not sure what to do. “Cecelia?” I finally ask.
She sighs long and loud, like I’m putting her through a major inconvenience, and turns back to me. “I wanted to say thank you.”
I blink at her, confused. “Uh, you’re welcome.” There’s a beat of silence. “You mean for the tape?”
She sighs again. “No. For the party.”
When I still don’t say anything, she huffs and crosses her arms. “That asshole put his hands on Violet,” she says, not meeting my eyes. “And you got in between them. I…I really appreciate that.”
“Oh.” I had been sure her only reaction to me at that party was annoyance for how weird I’d acted after. “It’s no big deal.”
Finally, she meets my gaze, and I suck in a breath. She looks so damn sincere, her blue eyes wide and serious. “It is a big deal. And I appreciate it.” She swallows, and I think I catch a flash of guilt on her face. “I should have said that before.”
I rub the back of my neck. “I know I got…well…” I wince and mutter, “fuck,” under my breath.
“I know I got weird that night,” I finally manage to get out.
“I just…I don’t always do so great in crowds like that.
” She’s watching me, clearly intrigued, and I fucking hate this.
Hate having to explain all the stupid quirks that rule my life.
Hate being so fucking weird all the time.
“I know I was probably rude,” I snap, sounding pretty damn rude now but unable to help it. “I’m sorry about that. I just…it was a shitty night.”
She watches me for a long moment and I can’t read her expression. Finally, she shrugs. “Okay.”
That brings me up short. “Okay?”
Another shrug. “You were rude ‘cause you were having a rough night. You also helped my cousin when she needed it. I’d say that evens things out.”
“Oh. I mean. Okay. Sounds good.”
She nods once and moves to the door, and I suddenly really don’t want her to leave. “So we’re good then?”
“Sure,” she says, without turning back.
“Does that mean you’re not going to give me a hard time about this training arrangement?”
She looks over her shoulder, eyes flashing as a smile curves her lips. “Definitely didn’t say that.” Then she’s walking through the door without another word.
And I don’t know if I should laugh—or be afraid of that glint in her eye.