"Walk with me," she says. She’s already moving down the hallway, her high heels clicking.
My pulse jumps as I fall into step beside her. Did I overstep? I'm not medical staff. Maybe I shouldn't have touched Connor. Shit. I shouldn't have given him advice without clearing it first.
“Juliet…” I start as we reach the elevator bank. “If I’m overstepping…”
“Not at all. In my office, please.” She guides me inside and presses a button. “I would just prefer a little more privacy when we talk. People are so nosy here.”
“...okay?” I say. I’m not sure what that means.
The elevator doors open and it’s only a few steps down the hall until we reach her office. She ushers me in and closes the door. Double shit. She must be about to ream me out. I wince, rushing to explain myself.
"If this is about Connor..."
Juliet interrupts me, cutting off my explanation with a wave of her hand.
"I’m not trying to get you in trouble, Scout. How long have you been doing that?" Juliet asks.
I’m impossibly confused. "Doing what?"
"Soft tissue work. Mobility assessments." Her voice is calm, curious rather than accusing. "I saw you with Connor."
"Ah." My throat tightens. "Like I said, I studied kinesiology in school. I know some things. I was just trying to help. I'm so sorry if I overstepped."
She leans against her desk, arms crossed, studying me like I'm a puzzle she's trying to solve.
"You also teach yoga, right?"
My cheeks warm. "Yeah. I haven't led a class in a while, but that's part of my kinesiology practice. Very... holistic."
She pushes her cheek out with her tongue, studying me asif seeing me for the first time. "So tell me. If you could design a program for this team, what would it look like?"
"Oh, easy." The words tumble out before I can stop them. "Mobility Mondays. Twenty minutes post-practice of targeted work based on position and common injury patterns. Hip flexors for forwards who need speed. T-spine mobility for shooting mechanics. Shoulder capsule work for injury prevention." I'm talking with my hands now, gesturing to my body as I talk about each part like I'm presenting to a class. "We could track baselines, measure range of motion improvements. I'd tie it directly to on-ice performance metrics."
Then I stop, breathless, heat flooding my face. "But that's... I mean, I'm not qualified. I'm not a licensed PT. I didn't finish the program."
Juliet's mouth curves into something that might be approval. "You seem to know more than most of these players do about their own bodies. And right now, we're hemorrhaging games to soft tissue issues and fatigue penalties. I don’t know if you keep up with the staffing around here, but we lost two of our best trainers this year to retirement and maternity leave." She straightens, picking up her tablet. "So I would like you to write up your program. Scope, key performance indicators, risk mitigation. Show me what it would actually look like."
My heart hammers against my ribs. "You're serious?"
"I'm always serious about winning. And if this keeps even one player out of the medical bay, it's worth exploring. I happen to be married to a particularly injury-prone player. Anything to keep him off the IR list helps." She glances at her tablet, then back at me. "Send me a proposal. I'll take it to the coaches."
"Juliet, I..." My voice catches. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. You have to convince Coach Crossfirst." But there's warmth in her voice. Her approval makes my chest swell with something dangerous.Hope.
I float out of her office with my mind already spinning. Plans and metrics and proof. Structure and purpose to my life. The chance to actually use my brain for something that matters instead of just making myself useful in ways that anyone could do.
I round a corner and nearly collide with Jamie Proulx.
He's a rookie defenseman, maybe twenty years old. Way too young for me, but already a good-looking go-getter. Like I said, this whole team is handsome.
I, on the other hand, am a new divorcée at twenty six. I have almost nothing in common with Jamie except that we both live in Seattle and work for this team. His hair is still damp from the shower. He's got that wide-eyed eager look that all the new guys have before this league chews them up. He shifts on his feet, scratching the back of his neck like he's gearing up for battle.
"Uh, hey, Scout," he says. His voice cracks a little, which makes me feel ancient. "You want to grab dinner sometime? There's this place by the pier that does really good..."
My feet stop moving. Heat climbs up my throat.Oh god.He's a kid. Sweet, but still a kid. And I'm standing here in my team polo with coffee stains on the sleeve, feeling older than dirt.
"Jamie, that's really kind of you," I start, trying to keep my voice gentle. "But I can't. I'm sorry."
