Silas arches an icy brow. "You must have the wrong time. Cross toldmeto be here at ten."
"Oh!" My cheeks warm. "Yeah, maybe I got the time wrong."
"Dude. Shutup," Hunter says, looking at Silas. He sighs. "He's going without pain meds, so he's extra grumpy today."
Silas grunts. “Am not.”
I nod. "Right. Well, should we go in? We can figure out who’s supposed to be where."
“Great.” Hunter checks his watch. "I have to get downstairs. I have a check in with my trainer before the optional skate."
"Good. Stop buzzing around me." Silas waves his hand dismissively.
Hunter loses his temper. "Sure. I normally leave family members who've just had surgery in the fucking hallway like they're garbage."
"I can help!" I jump in. "Since we're both going to the same place."
"Are you sure?" Hunter asks. "He's extra feisty today."
"It would be my pleasure." I smile at Hunter, hoping he can feel my sincerity.
"When my arm's healed, I'm going to kill both of you," Silas says.
"Yeah, yeah." Hunter heads off down the hallway, calling over his shoulder. "Don’t threaten anybody else, bro. Text me if you need me, Scout!"
"Traitor," Silas whispers under his breath.
I turn to sweep my gaze over Silas and frown. His chin-length dirty blond locks are unstyled and rumpled, falling across his forehead in a way that would be endearing if he weren't glaring at me. His button-up's misbuttoned and wrinkled, hanging awkwardly over the sling. He's a big guy—six foot eight of muscle and barely controlled irritation—and a very handsome one at that, but hostility rolls off him in waves. Those blue-gray eyes are harder than usual, probably from pain and lack of sleep.
"Let me get the door," I say, reaching past him for the handle.
He jerks away from me like I've burned him. "I don't need help."
The words are sharp enough to cut. His eyes are flat and cold, daring me to argue.
"I wasn't—" I start, but he's already shouldering the door open with his good side, teeth clenched against what must be significant pain.
I follow him in, heat climbing my neck. The room's already tense when we enter.
Coach Cross sits at the head of the conference table. Beck Tate claims the seat to his right, arms crossed, expression unreadable. An analytics kid I don't know hunches over a tablet, tapping through data. Juliet sits at the far end with her legal pad and one foot tucked under her chair. Ivy exudes stress, tapping her pen against the table.
Assistant coaches Ryan and Pat scribble notes. No one seems happy.
Silas drops into a chair near the door, trying to look casual despite the awkward angle of his sling. I can't stop watching him from the corner of my eye. The way he shifts carefully, the micro-expressions of pain he's trying to hide. He's not fooling anybody.
"Good. You're both here." Cross looks between us. "How do you feel, Silas?"
Silas clears his throat. "Uh, fine."
"No, you're not fine." Juliet looks up. "You're staying with us. Somebody has to take care of you."
Silas sits up straighter. "No. I'm going back to my condo after I leave here."
"Like hell you are," Juliet says. "I heard you cursing while you were trying to get dressed this morning. Our walls are very thin."
Silas drums his fingers on the conference table. "Another reason I should leave."
"Everyone, shut up." Cross doesn't exactly shout, but hisvoice rings with authority. "Let's start with Scout's program proposal. Then we'll circle back to Silas."
