Living with Silas means my job has evolved fromfetch coffee for everyonetobabysit one extremely grumpy defenseman. It's not exactly the career advancement I dreamed of, but at least I only have to deal with one giant man-child instead of thirty.
Small victories.
I'm at the arena gym, hovering near Silas while he rides an exercise bike and glowers at the wall like it personally insulted him. I'm supposed to be working on my Mobility Monday instructions, but it's hard to concentrate when Ice Man over there looks like he's plotting the bike's murder.
Silas is my responsibility now. Coach Cross made that crystal clear. Monitor him. Keep him from doing something stupid that sets back his recovery. Make sure he doesn't hulk out and destroy equipment.
I can do all of those things. If Silas would stop snarling at me every five minutes, anyway.
One of the newer trainers, a guy named Mike who looks about twelve years old, sidles up to me. "Hey, will you grabme an almond milk latte? I went out too late last night and I'm fading."
I smile. "I would normally say yes, but I'm not doing coffee runs today. I have to stay here."
Coach Ryan walks into the gym. He's tall, dark, and has that ex-pro-athlete thing going on. His blue eyes land on me and Mike.
Apparently oblivious to his boss watching, Mike frowns. "Listen, sweetheart. Your job is to get me coffee when I say so. That's your entire reason for existing. So run along."
He makes a shooing motion. My face heats. I smile even though what I really want is to kick him in the shins.
"That's not my job today?—"
"Mike!" Coach Ryan growls. "Surely you have work to do."
"I was just telling her to grab me a coffee," Mike explains, completely missing the danger he's in.
"It's fine!" It comes out squeaky. "I can text Jessa. She's picking up slack while I work with Silas."
"Don't move." Coach points at Mike. "Is there a reason you think you're better than her?"
Mike goes pale. "Uh, no..."
"You're the lowest man here, Mike. From now on, you get your own coffee. You come in ready to work. And for fuck's sake, you don't tell my employees what their job is. Scout reports directly to me now. That makes her higher than you. Now get to work before I start rethinking your employment."
"Yes, Coach," Mike mutters, scurrying away like a scolded puppy.
Ryan rolls his eyes. "Amateur. I bet he washes out in a few months."
"Let's hope not." I clear my throat. "Thanks for the rescue."
"Coach Cross told me to look out for you." His lips curl. "Now go work on Mobility Mondays. Silas will be busy here for a couple hours."
I nod and pull a chair over by the doorway, settling in to multitask. Watch Silas. Work on my tablet. Try not to stare at Silas. Fail at not staring at Silas.
The gym has a few other injured players doing rehab, but most of the action's around my favorite grumpy patient. Two trainers hover over him, guiding him through resistance bands and balance drills. Silas looks miserable and rigid, jaw tight with frustration.
He also looks unfairly good. The black workout shirt clings to everything. Sweat slides down his neck. His hair's pulled back, showing off that sharp jaw and those blue-gray eyes that refuse to meet mine.
Even injured and furious, he's stupidly attractive. It's honestly offensive.
He always has been. Eight years ago I asked him out and he turned me down flat. End of mortifying story.
But watching him now, I can see through the Ice Man act. Everyone calls him cold, emotionless, a machine. I see the way his left hand flexes when he can't complete a movement with his right. The micro-grimace when pain flashes before he locks it down. How he counts reps under his breath like numbers are the only thing keeping him sane.
He's not emotionless. He's just terrified of showing emotion.
I shouldn't care. There are a dozen reasons to stop wishing Silas had said yes eight years ago. But here I am, finding excuses to check in. Bringing him water. Correcting his trainer when they suggest exercises that could hurt his shoulder.
Silas growls at me. His trainer thanks me.
