Page 23 of Sexting the Coach

“Uh,” she laughs, shrugging, “I mean, yeah, eventually.”

“Just seems like you enjoy working with them.”

“I think I’d make a good mom,” she says, and it strikes me as one of the most honest things she’s said. Then, tilting her head at me, she says, “Why didn’t you and Leda have kids?”

The answer is out of my mouth before I have a chance to think about it. It’s automatic, “Didn’t want them.”

Her eyes widen, like the concept of not wanting kids is foreign to her. “Like, ever?”

My eyes drop to my lap, and I fiddle with the seatbelt’s strap. Leda was the one who didn’t want kids—her focus was always her career, and she assumed I was the same. When the topic came up, she would line up the reasons why kids didn’t make any sense—they’re expensive, time-consuming. If we wanted to hold a baby, we could always visit someone else’s, nieces, or nephews.

“Nah,” I finally answer. It’s easier to stick this answer. Admitting that I would have wanted kids at this point is only going to make her feel sorry for me, and that’s not what I need. “Can we move away from these questions?”

“Sure,” she says, pulling out what looks like some sort of print-out, scanning over it. “Okay—what’s your love language?”

“Love language?” I can feel my brow wrinkling. “Uh, English?”

She sighs, leaning back into her seat and covering her face with her hands. Through her fingers, voice muffled, she says, “This is going to be harder than I thought.”

It’s one of the first things we’ve agreed on.

Chapter 9

Elsie

“Well, what’syourfavorite color?” Weston asks, settling into the chair across from me and glancing around the coffee shop we’re in, like he’s expecting someone to ask for his autograph at any moment.

“Pink,” I say, distractedly, because there’s a lot going on in this place.

Behind the counter, there’s the hiss of steaming milk, the chugging of a blender, people giving and taking orders. It smells like espresso and bacon, and my stomach growls despite the fact that I had a smoothie before leaving this morning.

The Squids are gearing up for their first regular season game, and though we’re not even into October yet, this cafe is decorated with bats and pumpkins. A bulldog sits right outside the window, staring at me, and I can’t stop looking down at him.

“Pink—of course,” Weston mutters, laughing to himself and taking a sip of his coffee, which is, of course, black.

“At least it’s a real color.”

“What questions are on your list?” he asks, waving his hand toward it but looking out at the patio. The bulldog is staring at him, now.

“What’s the weirdest thing you’ve done in public?”

“Nothing,” he says, keeping a blank face.

“Really, you’ve never done anything weird in public?”

“No. What about you?”

I pause, chewing on my lip for a second, trying to think of something that’s weirdandcharming, not just weird. “I played a tree in a school play.”

“That is so rehearsed.”

“No, actually, I didn’t have any lines.”

Weston rolls his eyes, reaching over and taking the paper, “Let’s see—what’s the strangest text you’ve ever received?” His eyes light up with laughter, and my face flushes. “Oh, that’s easy, you see, a few weeks ago?—”

“Next,” I chirp, reaching over and taking the paper back from him, “What is the sweetest thing someone has done for you?”

“…nothing.”