Page 11 of Sexting the Coach (Pucking Daddies #6)

Elsie

Isit anxiously in the meeting room, glancing at the door every ten seconds, though it doesn’t bring Weston in any faster.

Two of the PR people sit across the table from me, while another is pacing on the other side of the room, a presentation already cued up on the screen, no title showing yet. The pictures came out this morning. How they had time to put together an entire PowerPoint is beyond me.

As I sit, waiting, my mind wanders back to walking into the PT center earlier today, Loraine’s tight-lipped, can I speak to you in my office practically one single word. I hadn’t seen the pictures yet, but I knew I was in deep shit.

Director of PT and Sports Medicine, Loraine has her own office with a nice view of the city, and she led me inside, a chilly air practically floating off of her as she did. I took a seat, and she fixed me with a look that reminded me of my mother.

Disapproving.

“Elsie,” she said, leaning forward and pushing a lock of her dusty blond hair behind her ear, eying me.

Since my very first day on the job, I’ve been inspired by Loraine, wanting to be more like her.

She has her shit together, my dream job, and does everything in an assured, fast clip.

Like she knows exactly what she’s doing, and exactly where she’s going next at all times.

“Let’s talk about the elephant in the room. ”

I shifted, swallowing, laughing nervously. “What elephant is that?”

Loraine sighed. “When I interviewed you for this position, you told me that you’re taking your career seriously.”

“I am.”

“With all due respect,” Loraine said, not unkindly, “I would not associate dating our head coach with taking this position seriously.”

When I came up with the idea for Weston and me to pretend at dating, just to get Karlee off our backs, I hadn’t thought of everyone. Of all the people around the outskirts of my life who would definitely, certainly not approve of this kind of relationship.

It never occurred to me to think of my boss. That a workplace “romance” like this might say something to her about my professionalism. I shifted again in my chair, clearing my throat.

Becoming a sports PT has always been my dream. Since I was seventeen, this career has been the only thing on my radar, on my horizon.

“I am serious about this position,” I said, doing my best to sound professional, sitting up tall. “It’s just some of fun. PT is absolutely my priority.”

She sighed again, then told me to go ahead and get to work. There was another look on her face, something not meant for me. I was dying to ask her about it, but I had a feeling I already knew what she was thinking.

That Weston was taking advantage of me. Or tricking me into this.

It’s not like Weston and I are best friends. But knowing anyone is thinking of him like that—when I’m the one who started all this—makes it hard for me to swallow.

“Mr. Wolfe,” one of the PR people says, his whiny voice making me jump. “You made it.”

“Sure did,” Weston practically growls, and when I look up at him, my heart does several flips. His dark brown hair is clearly damp after a shower, nearly black, and still sticking out from under his hat though it’s not dry.

He’s wearing a tight Squids shirt and a pair of jeans that—stupidly—take my breath away. All I can think about is unbuttoning them, sliding down, the top of his underwear sticking out.

At that thought, I flash back to the day I walked in on him, during camp. His underwear were visible then—was he wearing Calvin Klein?

My brain scatters again when he sits next to me, a fresh shower smell—soap, cologne, and deodorant—washing over me, making my throat dry.

Part of me thinks he shouldn’t sit next to me—we’re clearly in trouble.

Then again, we’re trying to sell that we’re dating, so it wouldn’t make sense for him to sit somewhere else.

As though he can hear my thoughts, he reaches over, takes my hand for a moment, squeezes it like it’s something we do all the time. “Hey.”

“Hey,” I wheeze. Is this what he’s like with his girlfriends?

Scooting his chair closer, resting a hand around the back of my chair, tracing the tips of his fingers over the edge of my shirt, so a shiver runs the length of my back—it’s practically obscene.

I make a mental note to do some more digging, see if I can find pictures of him with his ex-wife in public.

For some reason, I’m dying to know if he’s this touchy with every woman he dates.

Or if it’s just me.

It’s not like I’m a virgin. I’ve been with plenty of guys, dated Jonathan on and off for years. I must have felt like this around him at some point, right? But was he ever so casually affectionate with me? Touching me, making it obvious to everyone that we were together?

No, I decide. Jonathan never did that sort of thing.

The way Weston acts now, with a sort of gentle possessiveness, makes my stomach feel funny. Tight and loose at the same time. Like when you close your eyes in bed, after a day at the amusement park, and you still feel like you’re moving. Mabel would know the word for it.

“Thank you for coming,” the woman at the front of the room says, turning to us, and I search my brain, trying to remember who she is.

Surely I met her at some point during orientation, but it’s not like physical therapy and public relations really have a whole lot of overlap in day-to-day operations.

“I’m sure both of you know what we’re here to talk about. ”

I open my mouth to find some answer to that—to defend myself. Explain that it’s not as bad as it looks. But Weston squeezes my leg under the table and I go quiet, another shiver running the length of my back at his touch.

“These pictures,” the woman—Tamra, I remember, her name is Tamra—says, gesturing to the PowerPoint, where three separate screen shots of our date are spotlighted, “came to my attention this morning.”

I fight against the instinct to open my mouth and try to defend ourselves. It’s not like we thought we would be photographed—and we already documented our relationship with HR. Somehow, in an attempt to make things better, my suggestion that we fake date is only making things worse.

“We’re here today to come up with a strategy,” she says, turning around, and weirdly enough, there’s a smile on her face. “To keep this up.”

I realize Weston must have been bracing himself beside me, muscles tense, when he finally relaxes. His fingertips go from grazing my back to making full contact. I force my mind to focus on the mission at hand, rather than the little spot of heat from each of his fingers.

“…keep this up?” Weston says, eventually, when the silence in the room goes on for a beat too long.

“Yes!” Tamra says, apparently blowing right past our confusion.

For someone who’s supposed to be well-versed in communication, she clearly doesn’t realize we were expecting a much different reception here.

Pointing to one of the pictures—in which I, mortifyingly, am making major heart-eyes at Weston—she goes on, “This is great for us!”

“I’m sorry,” Weston says, shaking his head and holding up a hand. He shifts away, his hand dropping from my back and rising up as he talks. “I can’t speak for Elsie, but I was under the impression that a…complicated relationship like this would be a problem for the team’s image.”

“I would have thought that, too,” Tamra says, her eyes cartoonishly wide.

I glance at Weston, to see if he notices, but he looks too agitated to take note of her expressions.

“But the comments—people are loving the two of you! They feel bad for you,” Tamra points to Weston, then turns to me, “and think you’re darling. ”

“Feel sorry for me?” Weston’s brow drops. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Since Leda Temple announced her engagement?”

I can’t help it—I glance over at him, trying to gauge how this information might be affecting him.

It had never occurred to me that he might still be in love with Leda, but who wouldn’t?

I grew up watching her movies, first when she was a teen starlet, then when she got older and turned into a drop-dead gorgeous star.

It’s not like I’m a celebrity aficionado, like Hattie, but I know about her.

Everyone knows about her. She’ll go down in the history books as one of the greatest actresses of all time, I’m sure of it.

She’s won awards, graced the covers of magazines.

Even now, a few years older than Weston, she holds a spot as one of the most gorgeous women in Hollywood.

Weston frowns, and I don’t manage to learn anything from the expression. Is that the frown of a man who is still in love with his ex-wife, or the frown of a man who doesn’t want to be sitting in this room right now?

And why does it matter to me?

I force myself to pay attention, to stop thinking about Weston and Leda. It’s not going to do me any good to linger on his past relationships. Especially since he and I aren’t even really together.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

Tamra waves her hand like it’s not important, and Weston sets his jaw, leaning back in his chair and staring off into the distance.

“We’re requesting, politely, that the two of you keep this kind of thing up,” Tamra says, gesturing to the PowerPoint. “This is not, obviously, like a strict requirement or anything, but this kind of decent publicity for the team could be good. After what happened with Morton.”

Weston’s jaw ticks. I, obviously, was not here last season when everything happened with Morton, but I know the basic facts.

I know that he fought hard to be in charge of hiring for the interns.

I know he hired only a very specific type—thin, pretty, and either college freshman or sophomores—and for the four months they interned, they all went through various forms of sexual harassment.

Then, nearly eight months ago, the interns banded together to blast him publicly. The Squids administration swore they had no idea about it—and that, if the interns had come to them first, they would have handled it—but the damage was done.

The scandal is still hanging around this place. Loraine told me that the HR department itself was doubled, and the team suspended the hiring of interns for a year, until a new system could be put in place.

“What do you mean by this kind of thing?” Weston asks.

“Going out in public, being seen. There are some team events we’d like you to consider, like the league’s charity gala next month.

Obviously, there are some people commenting on the age gap between the two of you online, but those comments are in the minority.

Even with those, this entire situation would be to the benefit of the team.

An obviously consensual relationship that people like because you are a part of it.

They are shipping you, as the kids say.”

If Hattie and Mabel were here, they’d be cringing hard enough to lose consciousness. I open my mouth to say something—though I’m not quite sure what, when Weston puts his palms on the table and leans forward.

“This is insane,” Weston says, shaking his head. “People should not be a fan of this. I am way too old for her.”

I dart a glance at him, my cheeks flaming. Does he realize what it sounds like when he says that?

Tamra laughs, like he’s telling a joke, “Sure, some people think that—but there are plenty of others who are into it.”

When I accepted this position, I could never have imagined I would be in this situation. I only realize my knee is shaking under the table when Weston—not even looking at me—reaches over and slides his palm over my knee to stop the motion.

“And what if we don’t want to do it?” I ask, voice soft.

Tamra nods quickly, like she’s considered this, “I get that it’s an imposition, totally. But you should know that being a team player like this would mean a lot to us. And we’d love to put in a good word for you with the administration.”

Weston shifts beside me, and I wonder if there’s some meaning under all this that I’m not catching. A good word would be nice—Loraine will decide which of the hires from this year will join the team full time next year.

And I would very much like a full-time spot.

“Okay,” I say, reaching down and settling my hand on Weston’s, which is still on my thigh and sending electric pulses the full length of my leg. “We’ll do it.”

Weston glances at me, raising his eyebrows like, oh, are we? But I just squeeze his hand and shoot him a look to go along with it. He should want to—this is going to help both of us.

Tamra claps her hands once, then bends down to grab some papers and slide them in our direction, “Perfect. These are ideas we had for you.”