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“Do you drink liquid sunshine from a bottle every morning?” My brash words only make him laugh harder. “That was a serious question.”
“Oh, I know,” he says before placing his hands on the boards behind him and pushing himself up to sit on the small surface. His cheeks are stained a light pink from the cold as he pats the spot beside him.
“There are perfectly good seats behind you.” I point to the stands on the other side of the ice.
He shrugs, and I frown, refusing to move. My fingers twitch at my sides, wanting to grab at my shoulder as a soreness awakens. Wrinkles grow between his eyebrows as he watches me begin to panic. Suddenly, realization floods his features.
“Tomorrow,” he begins. I stare at him blankly. “Meet me here at the same time. We’re going to work on that shoulder. I need to know how bad it is.”
I’m about to protest when he pins me with a look more serious than I’ve seen him wear so far. Realizing that this isn’t a battle I want a part in, I roll my lips and nod.
My agreement is incredibly reluctant, but agreement nonetheless.
“Okay. Tomorrow it is.”
7
ADAM
I’ve never had a favourite colour, but if I had to choose one, it would be whichever ones combine to create the vibrant red of Scarlett’s hair.
Multiple shades of brown, red, and even a little blond blend together to create a rusty copper colour that I wouldn’t doubt forces heads to turn whenever she walks into a room. On more than one occasion over the past two days, I’ve wanted to slip my fingers into the mass of curls and search through them to try and locate a strand of each individual colour.
Of course, I haven’t done that. Not only is that a ridiculous idea, but it’s an outrageously creepy one for a man ten years her senior to think up in the first place. Unfortunately, that reminder has done little to stall those intrusive thoughts.
I blink twice, lift my coffee cup to my lips, and take a generous gulp of the hot liquid in hopes of bringing myself back to reality. Scarlett does the same with her black coffee, and I fight back a wince. I’ve never liked the taste of black coffee. It’s too bitter, harsh. I much prefer something a bit sweeter. Quite the opposite of the woman in front of me.
Scarlett was at the arena before me again this morning, and it wasn’t hard to tell by her rigid, guarded posture that she would have rather been anywhere else. Not like I could blame her. I was clear when I told her what we would be focused on today. It was no surprise to see that she wasn’t excited to have her biggest insecurity poked and prodded at by someone she barely knows.
Still, she accepted the coffee I brought her with a small thank you and followed me inside. We skipped the ice altogether and instead headed straight for the therapy room.
That’s where we are now, and after she sits on the raised bench, I place my coffee down on the small counter behind me. With a soft smile, I hold my hand out in front of me, and she shoves her coffee into it like she can’t get rid of it fast enough. It hits me then that she’s nervous.
Quite nervous.
“I’m not going to judge you, Scarlett. You have my word. I only want to see where you’re at so we know where to go next.”
She nods stiffly, watching as I place her cup beside mine. “I know.”
“If it gets too much, let me know and we’ll stop,” I reassure her. The last thing I want is to push too hard.
Having not worked with a physical therapy client in a while, I’m pretty nervous myself. I’m confident in what I’m doing—I wouldn’t have volunteered to help Scarlett if I wasn’t—but I can’t help but feel a bit rusty. Maybe I should have Quinn, our actual physical therapist, take over for me from now on.
“It’s not like it’s going to get much worse. Not unless you suck at your job.”
I stumble over my words. “Was that a joke?”
She avoids eye contact. “A bad one, apparently.”
“No it wasn’t.” I smile wide enough that my cheeks burn. “You just surprised me.”
Scarlett makes a face like she doesn’t believe me but drops it. Instead, she starts examining the room. Her eyes stray to the framed photo of me and Leonard Orlo the day after he completed his physical therapy and hit the ice at full capacity again. It was a long, hard road, as it usually is with professional athletes. The need to get back out there is one that’s extremely difficult to ignore.
“Leo told me that you were the one that helped with his knee.”
The wall is full of photos of me and my staff with rehabilitated clients, but she focused on that one in specific. Curiosity gnaws at my stomach at the prospect of learning more about her and her life, and I speak before I can stop myself.
“You and Leo are close?”
