Cal frowns up at him then turns away, shaking her head. “Try not to be too charming, Coach. You’ll frighten away the new hire.”
His large frame stiffens. “What new—” He stops mid sentence as he turns his head and sees me. Surprise flickers in his eyes followed immediately by recognition, and finally what looks a lot like disdain.
“Hi.” It comes out a bit squeaky and I clear my throat. I remind myself how much I need this job as I walk on unsteady legs across the room. I give him what I hope is a friendly smile and stick out my hand. “I’m Elliot Baker. The new physiotherapist.”
He stares at my hand for a long moment before extending his own. My hand all but disappears into his as he shakes it, firm and professional, before he lets go.
“Did you find someone else to run down in the parking lot?” he asks sardonically, and I feel myself flush.
“No,” I admit sheepishly. “But not for lack of trying.” I wink at him.
Sweet mother of pearl, why did I wink at him?
He gives me a look so hard it may actually leave a bruise. After a long moment he turns back to Cal, expectantly.
Without a word she underhand tosses a small white container to him. He catches it with ease, like it was beingpulled by an invisible force into his hand. Without so much as a nod or a word of acknowledgement, he turns on his heel, leaving the way he arrived. Abruptly.
I’m relieved by his absence, but wish the whole encounter had gone more smoothly. He may not be my direct supervisor, but when it comes to his players, what he says goes. If I want to keep this job—and I really want to keep this job—I need to stay on the higher-ups’ good sides. And few people are higher up than Arthur Stetson. Literally. The man must be six five at least.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Cal before fleeing the treatment room just in time to see the coach going around the corner. I jog to catch up with him. His limp appears worse than it was even a few hours ago in the parking lot.
“Excuse me, Coach?” I call when he’s ten feet away. He slows but doesn’t stop.
“Yes?” The word is clipped as he continues down the corridor.
“Um…hi,” I say as I attempt to fall into step with him. “I just wanted to say that I’m very sorry for…” I fumble for the right words.
“Almost killing me?” he offers, unhelpfully.
I laugh, because the entire situation is ridiculous. “Yes, exactly. It won’t happen again. Also, I wanted to tell you how excited I am to work with you.”
“You won’t be.”
“Excuse me?”
He stops, turning to face me with a deep sigh that’s not only audible, but palpable. I can feel his exhaustion—like it’s seeping out into the space between us. For the first time, I get a good look at this colossal man. He has to be in his early forties now, but age has only made him more striking. The fine lines at the corners of his dark eyes and mouth add character. His brown hair is touched with just enough grey to make him lookdistinguished, not old. Up close, he’s all broad shoulders, strong jaw, and quiet intensity—and somehow, even more attractive than he was in his prime.
“Miss Baker?—”
“Please, call me Elliot.”
His jaw ticks. “You will work with my players. If I have any specific instructions, I will communicate them through my coaching staff. I don’t work with the physios.” A curt nod and then he’s walking past me.
As I stare after him, his limp is basically screaming at me for help.
“Well, maybe you should,” I mutter.
Apparently, age hasn’t dulled his hearing. He halts mid-stride, his entire body going rigid before he slowly turns to face me. “Excuse me?”
His voice is clipped and I instinctively straighten my spine, trying to summon up an ounce of self-confidence. He might be the reigning hockey authority around here, but I’m the expert when it comes to the human body.
“Your gait is off,” I say, steady but careful. “Most likely from an old injury that never healed properly. You hide it well, but the signs are there—stiffness, limited range, a hint of compensation in your stride. With the right treatment you could see a major improvement. Even with a chronic injury, you’d be surprised what a targeted plan can do. I’d be happy to help…you…”
The words trail off as I watch his face harden. The temperature in the hallway seems to drop ten degrees. Coach Stetson’s expression is granite, and my confidence fizzles out like a match in a swimming pool.
“As impressive as that unrequested assessment was,” he says, each word sharp enough to draw blood, “I told you—I don’t work with physios.”
He pivots and strides away with purpose, and I silentlypray he’s not marching straight to HR to end my contract before it even begins. Just before he rounds the corner, he tosses a final comment over his shoulder.
