Page 12 of Sexting the Coach (Pucking Daddies #6)

Weston

After Elsie decided and told the PR team that we would be going along with their little plan, I thought she owed me at least one quiet evening to myself. But when I told her that I’d be skipping our PT session together, she laughed and smacked her palm lightly against my bicep, “Oh, you’re funny.”

And now, here I am, going along with some stupid stretches.

It’s not that I don’t like stretching, or that I don’t appreciate the importance of what PT is doing or the knowledge Elsie has on the matter. I just don’t like doing all this with her, alone in this room, with my body screaming to touch her each time we get close.

“I want to see how you respond to the different trainings,” Elsie says, her eyes focused on me as I lay on my side, staring back at her. This is not my idea of a fun Friday night—I’d rather be at home, watching film. Maybe catching highlights from the Blue Crabs game, I missed the other night.

“Come on,” she says, when I still don’t move. When she moves to the side of the table, taking my ankle and pulling on it, I ignore the press of her touch. “Lift your leg, you know how to, right?”

“Yes,” I say through my teeth, trying to ignore the pain that sears up my leg at about a three-inch lift. “I know how to lift my leg.”

“You’re in pain,” Elsie says.

“I’m not.”

“I can see it in your face, Wolfe—I don’t understand why you’re so hell-bent on hiding it.”

I grit my teeth as she turns and scribbles something down on her clipboard—likely something about the brief moment of discomfort I endured that she’s going to blow up into something wildly worse than it actually was.

But before I can say something, figure out what combination of words is going to convince her that I’m not in as much pain as she seems to think I am, she’s ushering me off the table, making me move to the other side of the room.

“You can brace against the wall if you need to,” she says, touching her hand briefly to a textured part of the wall.

“I don’t need to hold the wall.”

“Just raise your inside leg,” she says, reaching down to tap my knee like I might not know what she’s talking about. “Like this.”

I stare at her as she lifts her knee, holding it at a ninety-degree angle. She’s in a pair of soft blue scrubs I’ve seen her wear in here before, and the gentle taper around her hips is doing something stupid to my chest.

It’s just a pair of scrubs—I saw Leda in scrubs all the time when she was a guest star on the medical drama show—but there’s something different about this.

How comfortable Elsie looks in them, the little tear by the pocket that shows how often she’s in this outfit.

The fact that they’re practically formed to her body.

“Weston?” she asks, and when I tear my eyes up to hers, it’s obvious that I’ve been staring at her.

“Right,” I say, doing what she says, lifting my leg, ignoring the slight pain that twinges with each movement. We continue on like that, with me going through the motions, following her example, doing my best to ignore the fission of her little touches.

Her hair is in two braids today. They rest on her chest, just above her breasts, tied off with little blue ties I want to tug on, unravel.

“Over here,” she says, and I follow her to yet another corner of the room. “You’re just going to want—”

But when she reaches up to gesture to something on the wall, her hand catches the bill of my hat, and I feel it spin up, flipping off my head like a strong gust of wind has caught it.

“Shit,” I turn, placing one hand on the top of my head and reaching for the hat, which lies next to Elsie’s shoe.

She’s laughing, and manages to snag it before I can, turning it and looking at it, before meeting my eyes. “What’s with the hat? You’re like, always wearing one.”

“No,” I say, forcing a smile and reaching for it again, “I’m not. Just give it back.”

Something sparkles through her gaze, “Oh, you want it back?”

“Elsie,” I laugh darkly, shaking my head and walking toward her as she backs up, hiding the hat behind her back. “You don’t want to play this game with me. You’re not going to win.”

Her smile grows. In the dim light of the PT room, her pupils look huge, swallowing her irises. Her eyes—brown like honey or maple syrup, like something that could drip, shining in the light—glint with mirth.

“Oh, really?” Elsie teases, raising her eyebrows. “What are you going to do about it?”

As much as I’m enjoying the playful banter, I hate not having my hat on. Elsie is right. I’ve been wearing it since the first time I looked in the mirror and saw something I really, really didn’t like.

When I lunge forward, thinking I’ll be able to quickly grab the hat from her hands, I’m not quick enough, and Elsie sees what it is I’m trying to hide.

“Weston,” she says, dropping the hat to her side, looking at me with wide eyes. “Are you—is that why you wear the hat all the time?”

I glance to the side, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, annoyance rising inside me when I see the silver hair running along the top of my head.

When I was a kid, my mother used to say I should be grateful—that other families had the baldness gene. But when my dad went silver, my mom dutifully booked him appointments at the salon once a month to touch up his dye job.

Not knowing how to dye my own hair, and definitely not planning on going to my normal barber for something like this, I’d decided the best way to hide my new streaks of silver would be to wear my hat outside the house.

Clearly, that was a mistake.

“Yeah,” I grunt, taking her hesitation as a chance to reach forward and take the hat from her hand. She doesn’t move or try to snatch it back. I brush it off and turn it around, tucking it onto my head. “Not a big deal.”

For a second, we stand there staring at each other, and I’m not a huge fan of how my heart throws itself against my rib cage, like it’s trying to escape the moment.

I can’t help from thinking about that text she sent, all those months ago at the team-building camp.

I’d like to do a lot more than just check you out next time.

Would she have sent that text if she knew about this? About the fact that my hair is going to go from a simple salt and pepper to full silver in a matter of years. Then I’ll look like my father, and women aren’t going to think of me the same.

I don’t think of myself the same. After my hip injury, every year has felt like a swift decline. Gray hair, aching body—each passing month another opportunity to lose something that used to make me feel like myself.

Soon, I won’t even be able to skate.

“Weston.” Elsie’s voice draws me out of my thoughts, and I look up to find her stepping toward me. My breath catches in my throat when she reaches up slowly, like she’s trying to befriend an alley cat, her movements gentle and sure.

When she pinches the bill of the hat between her fingers, I know what’s coming, but for some reason, I’m powerless to stop her.

Slowly, she pulls the hat off my head, her throat bobbing when she does, her eyes trailing down over me, then back up to my hair.

I’m taller than her—though not by much—so she has to reach up to touch her fingertips to my hair.

I suck in a breath, jaw tightening, fingers curling into fists.

Logically, I know I should stop this. I shouldn’t let her touch me like this. Not only just because I’m not in the mood for a pep talk, but also because this entire thing is supposed to be fake. A ruse.

I’m not actually supposed to want to step into her, settle my hands on her hips, pull her body against mine.

“I like it,” she says, after a long moment of tension so thick I could wrap my hand around it. My eyes skip to hers, honey brown, and I realize she’s telling the truth.

I swallow. “You’re just saying that.”

“I am not.”

“It’s exactly the kind of thing you would say,” I grouse. “Always positive.”

“First, I’m telling you the truth,” she says, frowning, “and second, I really do like it. Think of the Blue Crabs coach—Harrison Clark. He’s like, the hottest coach in the NHL.”

“Ok-ay,” I force a laugh, ignoring the ripple of—what? Jealousy? That pushes through me at the idea of her thinking another coach in the NHL is hot. Or any man, for that matter. “He’s way too old for you.”

“Hasn’t stopped me yet,” she says, her voice low. When she takes a breath, her chest touches mine.

Fuck it.

The moment I let go of my restraint, my arm is snaking around the small of her back, drawing her into me, and she comes easily, her body warm under my touch.

I lower my head, lips already anticipating the feeling of hers on mine—but then, the contact doesn’t happen.

“Wolfe.”

Fincher stands in the doorway to the PT room, and on muscle memory I take the hat from Elsie again tucking it over my head as I glare at him. How many times is this asshole going to barge in on us?

“Yes?” I ask, glancing at Elsie, whose entire face is flushed like we’re not supposed to be seen together, even though, as far as Fincher and the public knows, we are very much dating.

Fincher pauses, like he’s not quite sure what he wanted when he barged in here, his eyes darting between me and Elsie. Thank God he came in here when he did, and not when I was doing one of her exercises.

“Did you need something?” I bark, and Fincher just scowls, turning and leaving the room without another word.

When I turn back to her, I have half a mind to drag her in and finish what we started, but she’s already taking a step back, already packing up the stuff.

“Alright,” she says, her eyes flicking to mine for just a second. “I think that’s enough for the night.”

And, not for the first time, I’m watching Elsie turn around and walk away while I’m left with a mountain of feelings and urges that I have absolutely no fucking idea what to do with.