"Get your head in the game, Huxley," Cross barks, but there's amusement in his tone.
After practice, I find Scout in the recovery room setting up for tomorrow's mobility session. She's got her honey blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, loose waves escaping to frame her face. She's wearing black yoga pants that hug her slender frame and a tight Havoc tank top. Those moss-green eyes are focused on arranging resistance bands with careful precision. She looks confident, competent, completely in her element. Beautiful doesn't begin to cover it.
"Did you mean what you said earlier? About wanting to marry me?"
"I probably should've run that by you first." I rub my hand over the back of my neck. "But I meant every word. I'd marry you tomorrow if I thought you wouldn't run screaming into the sunset."
She turns to face me, expression unreadable. "Are you proposing?"
"No. When I propose, you'll know it. This is just intention. Direction. Whatever you want to call it."
Scout reaches up and cups my face with both hands. "I want to call it perfect."
The kiss she gives me is soft but thorough, and when she pulls back, we're both breathing harder.
"We should probably avoid doing that here," she says, but she's smiling.
"Probably."
Beck walks in, takes one look at us standing too close, and immediately backs out. "Nope. Don't want to know. Didn't see anything."
We break apart laughing.
"I should finish setting up," Scout says.
"I should shower."
"You really should. You smell like hockey gear and bad decisions."
"You love my bad decisions."
"No, I love you despite your bad decisions."
I head for the showers feeling that same settled warmth that's been constant since we figured our shit out. This is what being chosen feels like. Not the dramatic movie version with grand gestures and perfect moments, but this quiet certainty.
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 twelveother 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."
