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She rips her stare from the photo before placing it on me. “Yeah. He was the one that convinced me to give this place a chance.”
“I should thank him, then.”
The slight catch of her breath is the only reaction I get. She ignores my comment, and I swallow to avoid asking why.
“Was Leo the last injured athlete you helped?” she asks.
“No. Oakley Hutton was.” Tension builds in my muscles. “After he healed from his collarbone injury.”
“The one that ended his career?”
I suck in a breath at her blunt question. “It wasn’t a career-ending injury, but it was close. He made the decision to retire based on other things at the time.”
Scarlett hums deeply, like she’s thinking about something too complex to share. It feels like forever before she answers me. And when she does, I have to fight to hold back the extent of my surprise.
“Well, if Oakley Hutton trusts you to help him, I guess I should too.”
“Just like that?” I ask in disbelief, expecting more resistance.
She looks at me again—this time with defiance in her eyes—and lifts one dark brow. “Were you expecting me to throw a tantrum and stomp my feet like a child? I might be young, but I’m nowhere close to immature.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.” Did I? No. But she’s right about one thing. She is young. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled to have your complete acceptance—it will make my job easier. But you seemed incredibly reluctant earlier. You just took me by surprise.”
“I seem to be doing that a lot.”
“You have,” I agree, trying—and failing—to hold back my smile. What can I say? It’s refreshing to be kept on your toes.
My phone dings from the pocket of my track pants, and I quickly pull it out, scowling at the time. WIT opens in fifteen minutes, and we haven’t even started doing what I had planned. I check the text to make sure it isn’t from Cooper or his school before tucking my phone away.
“Okay, enough distractions. Let’s get an idea of where you are with this shoulder.”
Her throat bobs with a swallow, and I try my best to reassure her with a gentle smile before taking a step toward her. She’s wearing a tank top today, and I have an unrestricted view of her carved biceps even after months without use.
“Tell me where you were with your old therapist.”
“We were working a lot with resistance bands and strengthening. My range of motion was getting really good,” she says.
“Okay. We’ll start with a couple of stretches and then try a resistance band. Place your left forearm on the doorframe and—”
“Turn my body away from it?” she cuts me off.
“Yeah, exactly.”
She seems okay with that idea because she doesn’t hesitate to do as I said. After about a minute of watching her stretch, I tell her she can stop and do a few more basic stretches.
After she’s done, I turn around and move to a basket of multicoloured resistance bands before picking up a slim band with more stretch than the others. Holding it out to her, I say, “Step on one end and grab the other.”
She does as I say, bending down and placing one end of the red band beneath her running shoe while holding the other end in a tight fist. Before I can tell her what to do next, she’s fixing her posture, straightening her arm at her side, and stretching the band toward the ceiling, up and away from her body.
Crossing my arms, I lean back on my heels. “Ten reps. Get your fist as level with your shoulder as possible.”
With a crease between her brows, she nods subtly, keeping her concentration on the task at hand. I’m instantly impressed at the range of motion she has with this exercise. It’s not full range, but it’s better than I anticipated.
Scarlett huffs a breath of frustration by her fifth repetition, when she can’t lift her arm any further, hitting her limit at about an inch from her fist being level with her shoulder.
“That’s really good, Scarlett,” I encourage. “Better than I expected.”
She scowls. “Not good enough. I was doing better months ago.”
