The words on the resume in front of me blur into inky swirls. I’m only half listening to the woman seated on the opposite side of my desk as she tells me about her brief year-long career with the Calgary Blaze for the third time in the past forty-five minutes.
We’re already well over her interview time, and I can’t keep myself from looking at the door, curious if my next applicant has shown up and whether she’s debating to stay a few more minutes or take off.
I’m praying she’s not the impatient type.
“I was so close to getting promoted to second-line centre when I broke my wrist and spent the rest of the season healing,” Lilliana says.
I nod subconsciously and push the flimsy paper away. Looking up, I catch her chewing on her thumbnail before she drops her hand to her lap.
“What have you been doing since? When did you leave the team?”
“Oh, I didn’t leave,” she replies with a forced laugh.
My brow quirks. “So you still play for them?”
“No. They released me from my contract.”
“Why?” I can’t help myself from asking. There are usually only two reasons a team will release a player from a contract early, and neither of them is promising.
Her nostrils flare as she sits up straighter in her chair. “I was too physical of a player on the ice.”
“Physical? In a mild-contact sport?”
Her laugh has an edge sharp enough to cut steel. “There lies the problem, don’t you think? The question you should really be asking is why do women with the same skill set as men have to play a milder version of the same sport we encourage them to hit and fight in?”
I tuck my knuckles beneath my chin and lean forward in my chair, chewing on what she’s said. It’s not a new topic, but still one that carries heavily opinionated views. Views that I don’t particularly want to get into today.
“You have valid points, Lilliana. I won’t argue otherwise. However—”
I’m interrupted by three harsh knocks on the door. The wheels on my chair screech against the floor when I abruptly stand and head toward the noise.
Grateful for the distraction, I throw a quick “Excuse me” at Lilliana before flinging open my office door. An immediate grin tugs at my mouth.
“My interview was twenty minutes ago, Mr. White,” says a clearly livid red-headed woman. She stands in front of me with her arms crossed, chin high, and robin-egg-coloured eyes blazing. My smile drops at her harsh tone.
Flaming red hair falls in loose curls over her shoulders, skimming the tips of her heavily muscled biceps. And freckles—so many dark brown freckles—are splattered across her porcelain cheeks and over her nose, like someone has flicked melted chocolate on her face and let it dry. I’m bombarded with the urge to take a pen to her skin and connect them all. I drag a hand over my jaw to collect myself before flashing a warm smile.
“You’re right. Um . . . if you just give me—” I risk a quick glance in Lilliana’s direction just in time to see her stand and grab her bag from the floor before I’m looking at my next interviewee again. “—a couple of minutes. I was just ending my last interview.”
“That’s unnecessary, Adam. I’m leaving now,” Lilliana says, sidling up beside me. I take a small step away, creating some distance. “Oh. Hi, Scarlett. You’re a rare sight nowadays. What are you doing here?”
Scarlett Carter eyes her old teammate with subtle annoyance and says in a monotone voice, “Trying to talk to Mr. White.”
“I meant in Vancouver,” Lilliana clarifies. “Last I heard, you were still in Alberta doing rehab on that shoulder of yours.”
Scarlett bristles. “It’s personal.”
“Right. Of course. Well, good luck. I hope the shoulder isn’t giving you too much trouble. If you cut your therapy short, I can’t imagine it’s feeling the greatest,” Lilliana says smugly. I clench my jaw.
Gripping the doorknob, I pull it open as far as possible and say, “It was nice to meet you, Lilliana. I’ll be making my decision soon.”
“Looking forward to hearing from you,” she says before giving Scarlett a condescending smile and walking away.
Good riddance. I will most definitely not be calling her.
As soon as she’s gone, I gesture to my office and release a tight breath when one of Canada’s best and most well-known female hockey players walks inside. Scarlett maneuvers around me swiftly and stops behind the chair Lilliana was just sitting on.
“I’m sorry about that,” I say.
She cocks a brow. “For what exactly? Making me wait outside your office for twenty minutes or for Lilliana?”
“Both?”
“Thanks.”
Swallowing, I nudge my chin toward the chair in front of her. “Please, sit. It’s nice to formally meet you. I know we’ve briefly spoken in passing.”
She hesitates but after a few silent moments nods her head and rounds the chair, sitting stiffly. I follow suit in my own chair but don’t hesitate to flash her another warm smile. There is no way I’m letting Lilliana Adino’s catty behaviour ruin this interview before it’s even begun. If you can even consider it an interview at this point. It’s more a formality than anything.
I clear my throat. “How long have you been back in Vancouver? When I ran into your mother, she mentioned it was a recent move.”
“A little over a month,” she replies.
Her blue eyes skate curiously over the shelves on the walls and the countless framed pictures and sports memorabilia that line them while I rub at my stubbled jaw, trying to form an estimated timeline in my head.
Scarlett Carter’s career is one that I’ve followed over the years, having watched her win an Olympic gold medal in 2018 with our Canadian women’s hockey team, and I trained a few of her friends before and after that. However, my knowledge only goes so far, and I can’t help but let my curiosity get the better of me.
We have only met once previous to this interview, at a charity game put on by the national league a year ago, and it was more of a passing greeting than a Q&A opportunity. She was playing her second season with the Calgary Blaze and was set to hit a record number of goals that year. To no one’s surprise, she hit that record and then some.
“You only injured yourself at the beginning of last season, correct? A grade III AC joint separation on your left side?” I ask, hopping right in and poking at the elephant in the room.
Her stare snares mine, guarded but not afraid. “So that is a kinesiology degree on the wall.”
I huff a laugh. “Yeah. It pays to have that knowledge around here.”
“Do you work a lot with sports medicine?”
“Not as much as I used to.”
She hums, considering me before saying, “Yes. It was a grade III AC separation. My third one.”
I hiss through my teeth and sit back in my chair. That’s shit luck. The recovery time for an AC separation isn’t the “end of the world” type, but a reoccurring separation would require surgery and a hell of a lot of rehab afterward. Not to mention being labelled injury prone in the eyes of the suits signing your paychecks. Her sudden disappearance from the Blaze and missing attendance at the Olympics this year starts to make more sense.
“If I’m right, you should still have another month or two of physiotherapy to go with that shoulder if you intend on ever playing again. You had surgery, right?”
Scarlett ever so slightly rolls said shoulder, and my eyes latch onto the movement, refusing to look away. My eyebrows pinch with concern.
“I had surgery six months ago. I feel fine now,” she says tightly, and when I finally look away from her shoulder, I’m met with an icy glare.
“Fine?” I release a tight breath. “So if I asked you to stand and do a shoulder extension right now, you’re telling me you wouldn’t feel any pain? Not even a slight twinge?”
If looks could kill, Scarlett would be my executioner.
“Is this a job interview or a clinic visit?” she snaps, digging her nails into the leather arms of her chair. I should stop pushing, but I won’t.
“Right now, it’s both.” I try to keep my tone level, easy. “If you ever want to play again—”
“I can’t play again. I’m done.”
Just like that, the frustration building inside of me depletes, leaving my tank empty of anything but a slight brush of surprise. I should have seen that coming.
“The odds of another injury are too high. It’s too risky,” I confirm. She jerks a nod.
“I’m here for my mom now. My shoulder is good enough the way it is to live with every day.”
“I’m going to take a stab in the dark and guess that you being here today is your mother’s doing?” I ask, smiling sadly. There’s a pang of disappointment in my stomach that I ignore.
“She was pretty adamant about me getting this job and out of her house.”
I lean forward, bracing myself on my desk by my elbows. I’m staring at the slight dimple in her chin when I say, “She wasn’t the only one. You’re my top choice. Injury or not.”
She blinks slowly. “I’m not sure I would be the best choice.”
“Why not? You have loads of experience, not to mention success.”
“I do, but I’m not exactly in the best shape.”
I barely manage to hold back my laugh. A brief flick of my eyes from her head to toes is all it takes to prove that statement incorrect.
Scarlett is in incredible shape. You don’t get to the athletic level she is without spending countless hours working your body to the bone, sculpting it into its highest form.
The way her thigh muscles bulge beneath the thin material of her yoga pants when she quickly crosses one leg over the other has me averting my gaze before I get caught drooling.
“If it wasn’t for your shoulder, I don’t doubt for a minute you would have just finished another winning season with the Blaze. You’re still in your prime, and it’s your choice whether you’re going to spend your best years wallowing with regret at home or helping train a very talented girl here at WIT. I know which option I would choose.”
Faint interest sparks in her eyes. “How old?” she asks reluctantly. “And what exactly did you have in mind? Because I’m extremely busy at home right now, and I have no interest in hurting myself further.”
“Sixteen. Willow Barton. She’s good. Really good. Might even be the best female skater I have. And as far as training goes, your shoulder would be safe. I can have somebody else handle the aggressive aspects of her training, but I need you to teach her everything else you know. I want you to help her perfect it all. Can you handle that?”
“She’s that good?”
I nod once. “She’s that good.”
I’ve had bundles of talented athletes come to WIT before making it to the professional level, but Willow is something special. For such a young girl, her future is brighter than most people double her age. She deserves the best. That’s why she came here in the first place.
Scarlett sighs, still looking torn on what to do. Before I have a chance to stop myself, I’m saying, “Take the job and I’ll help you with your shoulder. I might not be as good as whoever you were working with in Calgary, but I’ll try.” Her lips part as she prepares to no doubt turn me down, but I stop her with my next words. “You can try to fool everybody else by pretending you’re fine, but I’ve been taking care of athletes—injured and not—for too long not to notice that you’re in pain. I won’t judge you. Let me help.”
I haven’t worked on rehabilitation clients in six years—back when WIT was so new, I didn’t have any rehab therapists employed and had to upgrade my college degree—but there’s no chance I’m going to tell her that. The break hasn’t deteriorated my knowledge or experience, let alone my will to accomplish everything I try.
Scarlett runs a hand through her curls and exhales heavily. A scowl pulls at her rosy lips, and I almost laugh at how perfectly it fits her harsh demeanour.
“Fine,” she says. My jaw nearly drops. “I’ll take the job. But I need weekends and every day after five off. I won’t budge on that.”
“Done,” I agree easily.
She nods once before standing and placing her hands on her slightly flared hips.
Our eyes meet, and I offer her my hand. She hesitates for a brief second before our palms meet in a quick shake.
I grin. “Welcome to the WIT family, Scarlett Carter.”
