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?”
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.”
Before she stopped.
“Fallbacks happen. You’ll get there again.”
In under a minute, she finishes the ten reps and drops her arm like it weighs a thousand pounds.
“I want to do another exercise before the rink opens. We’ll leave everything else for tomorrow morning,” I tell her.
“Tomorrow morning?”
My smile starts small, slowly growing into a full-fledged grin. “Yes, tomorrow morning. And the morning after that. I want you here working on that shoulder every morning before work. Unless that’s a problem with you?”
She wears an uneasy expression but reluctantly agrees. “No, it’s not a problem.”
“You’ll meet Willow tomorrow as well. She’s coming in at 10:00 a.m.”
“I’m assuming you have an outline for me to follow?”
“I do. We’ll go over it this afternoon.”
Usually, it would be the trainer’s responsibility to draw out a training program for their client, fit specifically to what they need or have requested, but the circumstances here are a bit different. So for now, she’ll use my plan. Besides, I have a strong inkling that Scarlett will want to create one herself after her first session with Willow.
I take a step back and click my tongue. “Let’s move on before we get distracted again. You can drop the band on the bench. We won’t be using it again today.”
She does but not without cutting me a curious glance that I try to ignore. I’m confident that she’ll have done all of the stretches and exercises I had planned for today, but that doesn’t mean they’ll be easy. Nothing about restrengthening a muscle that’s been sitting near-dormant for months is easy.
Tapping my fingers on my thighs, I move toward the far corner of the room. There are three yoga mats spread along the wall beside a collection of dumbbells, yoga balls, and balance boards. I point to the mats while grabbing a balance board and gently moving a yoga ball over with my foot.
“Do you care which mat you use?” I ask.
She shakes her head and moves to the one closest one to her, the one on the end. I place the balance board on the front end of the mat, watching it wobble on its small circular base before setting the yoga ball off to the side for the time being.
“Okay, you’re going to get down on the floor, place your hands shoulder width apart on the base, and try to keep the board stable. If you need to support yourself on your knees for now, then do that. There’s no rush here. I want you to feel comfortable,” I assure her.
She releases a slow breath, and some of the previous tension in her shoulders disappears. I find myself doing the same. I’m tenser than usual, and I can’t deny that’s because I feel a heavy pressure not to mess anything up when it comes to this woman.
The only noise in the room is the shuffle of her sneakers on the cold tile floor before she’s lowering to her knees on the mat and inching toward the board. Her vibrant red curls fall in her face, regardless of it being tied back, and my fingers itch to pull one to see if they’re as springy and soft as they look. I give my head a rough shake, dispelling that thought before it has a chance to sink in.
Scarlett places her hands on the board exactly how I instructed, but after about a minute she swiftly pushes off her knees, holding her body up in a shaky, full plank position instead. I chuckle, completely unsurprised by the confidence she has in her body.
A bolt of excitement shoots through me when she glances up and holds my gaze with a silent dare. One I don’t turn down.
“Move the board in circular motions,” I order, and I swear her lips twitch.
Muscles rippling with the effort, she shifts her weight around, forcing the board to tilt in a clockwise motion before dropping back to her knees and starting again. The neck of her tank top hangs open, exposing the navy blue sports bra beneath it, and I dart my eyes to her natural, unpainted fingernails.
“Anything else, boss? Or have I passed inspection?” she asks, tone dripping with attitude. Attitude that entertains me far more than annoys me at this point.
“Are you in any pain?”
She looks at me like I’ve just asked the most ridiculous question. “I’ve been holding a plank on a balance board for at least a minute now.”
I roll my eyes. “It was longer than a minute. And I meant your shoulder.”
“A bit. It feels more wobbly than painful, though.”
Nodding, I say, “Let’s call it for today. We can pick back up tomorrow morning.”
Scarlett drops her knees to the mat before leaning back on her heels. Her forehead is slightly damp, and her cheeks are a pale pink, but other than that, she looks cool, calm, and collected.
“That’s it?” She looks confused, which in turn confuses me.
“Were you hoping for more?”
“Not really. You’re just more relaxed than I expected,” she admits, standing back up. With her hands on her hips, she tilts her head to the side and rolls her shoulder. I watch for the first sign of pain but only see relief as she stretches.
“That’s a compliment, right?”
She blinks. “Yeah. I guess it was.”
“It’s nice to know that you’re capable of those. You had me worried for a minute there.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
My smile is wicked. “I’ll try, Scary Spice.”
Her eyes narrow into slits as soon as the words hit the air. I bite back a laugh. “No” is all she says.
I quirk a brow. “No? No what?”
If the death glare she’s giving me is anything to go by, I think it’s safe to say she’s not a fan of the name.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Not a Spice Girls fan?”
She huffs, frustrated, and it only eggs me on. I’ve always loved a good challenge, and getting Scarlett to loosen up might be my new favourite one.
“Do you not like it because you don’t know who the Spice Girls are?” I stifle a laugh when she glares at me—hard.
“I’m not a child. I know who the Spice Girls are.”
“Then you’ll learn to love the nickname,” I tease.
“I’m positive I won’t.”
I run my fingers through the long pieces of hair at the top of my head and smirk. She has no idea how wrong she is.
