Page 16 of Sexting the Coach (Pucking Daddies #6)
Elsie
My heart pounds alarmingly hard and fast for hours after I leave the arena, my mind playing and replaying the kiss.
Returning to me the feeling of Weston’s lips on mine, the way his hands gripped my waist. The tight, insistent touch of him, with just a tinge of frustration, like he wished the kiss of was happening anywhere else.
When the game ended, and I knew the Squids won, it was like my body went rogue. I was standing, then I was rushing down the steps. For the duration of the game, I’d watched him pace back and forth, making calls, glaring at Fincher. It was like I couldn’t look away from him.
There’s something about watching someone in their element. I’d watched a lot of Weston’s film at that point, seen all the games he played in as a right winger, but seeing him as a coach was different.
Because, as much as he doesn’t seem to really believe it, he’s good.
Anticipating what players need before they ask, keeping them from getting too into their heads.
Throughout the game, I watched him make adjustments, call out to guys, and deliver a different version of himself to each player based on what they needed most.
And as I watched him, I felt something growing in my chest. Something I didn’t even want to look at, let alone give a name to.
But I liked watching him in his element. Watching him make calls and talk to the assistant coaches. Seeing the way the guys defer to him, listen to him, follow his lead. He’s an amazing coach. And he looks great in the black pants, inky blue zip-up that’s the typical coach’s uniform.
When I’d turned to the bench, sliding by a couple of celebrating players, there was a second in which I thought Weston might not let me kiss him.
That he might exercise some logical thinking and tell me that though PR had asked us to be public, a make-out session at the end of a game might not be the best idea.
His eyes went wide when he saw me, his gaze dipping down to my toes before rising back up the length of my body. And when I touched him, he was all want, pulling me in. I had nothing to worry about, apparently.
There’s something about the press of his hand to the small of my back that makes me feel absolutely feral.
So even though I bolted right after the kiss, realizing we would both have to deal with the consequences of me kissing him like that in front of all the cameras, I can’t stop thinking about it.
I can’t stop thinking about it, and my heart can’t stop pounding.
So much so that when I get to my apartment building, and grab my mail, my heart doesn’t really change pace much at the sight of a square envelope, sent from a name that normally sends a shot of adrenaline right through me.
Andrew Montgomery.
The doorman waves at me, and I force myself to wave back to him as I make my way to the elevator.
The building itself is gorgeous, a historical structure—I think it used to be a factory—featuring the loft apartments like the one we share.
The elevators are golden and surrounded by elaborately decorative panels like Gothic crown molding.
It should be enough to take my mind off of it, but I’m already so emotionally shaken up from the game—from seeing Jonathan and kissing Weston in front of everyone—that the piece of mail from my brother is enough to send me over the edge.
Hands shaking as I push through the front door to our apartment, I walk in with my gaze locked on the mail.
The living room is mostly dark, and I don’t look up as I quickly cross the room and drop the envelope into the spot on the top of the microwave—a graveyard for the mail we don’t want to throw away, but don’t want to keep, either.
It settles there with some coupons for local restaurants and Hattie’s voter registration.
When I turn around, I realize the TV is paused on the image of Weston and I kissing at the game.
His head is dipped toward me, his hat turned around backward so the bill doesn’t get in the way.
All the hair around his ears is dark brown, so looking at it, I’m the only who knows about the silver hairs sprouting up around the top of his head.
A shiver runs through me at the sight of our embrace, his hands on me, my hair cascading over my back.
“Okay,” I mutter, shaking my head and pinching the bridge of my nose as Hattie and Mabel burst into laughter. “Is this really necessary?”
“Girl!” Mabel says, throwing her hand out toward the screen. “They turned the kiss cam on again, just for you!”
“I’m pretty sure this is rated R now,” Hattie jokes, letting her head fall against the back of the couch in laughter.
“Ha. Ha,” I return, letting out a loud puff of air and crossing the room, dropping onto the couch beside them. “PR asked us to make some public shows like that. I’m only following through on orders.”
“Oh, did PR ask you to stick your tongue down Weston’s throat?” Hattie asks, laughing again.
“His throat isn’t the only place I’d want to put my—” Mable starts, and I reach out, clapping a hand over her mouth.
“Don’t even think about finishing that sentence,” I say, and though I’m mostly joking, I can’t ignore the peel of jealousy that spirals up through my stomach. Weston isn’t mine. My body needs to be aware of that. He doesn’t belong to me. Anyone is allowed to lust after him in any way they want.
But Mabel’s eyes are on me, and I can feel her understanding my jealousy before I do, so I pull my hand away before she can realize anything else about me. When she opens her mouth, I brace for her to poke me about it, point out the possessiveness I’m feeling.
“What was in the mail?” she asks, surprising me.
“Oh,” I croak, glancing over my shoulder at the microwave, which seems to glow with an evil energy.
The letter from Drew. Letter? Card? Maybe it’s a lawsuit, a super late summons to civil court, so he can sue me within an inch of my life for ruining his. I swallow through the glass in my throat and the fuzzy haze of anxiety in my head, finally managing to finish with a broken, “Noth-ing.”
“Sounds convincing,” Hattie quips, but the two of them probably already know what it is. It’s not the first time Drew has sent something like that—and it’s not the first time I’ve panicked and thrown it to the side.
For some reason, I feel far more comfortable ignoring it. If I open it, and it’s something bad, something about the past, I can’t run from it anymore.
But as long as I leave that envelope shut, I won’t have to face the music for what I did. I can continue avoiding Drew, and he can keep avoiding me.
It’s kind of a family tradition, to avoid talking about our problems. It’s something Mabel has been working hard to beat out of me.
“We can only work as roommates if we’re all willing to say what we need and what we want,” she’d said, after we moved into our first apartment, gesturing between me, Hattie, and herself. “You have to be willing to say when something bothers you, and accept when someone comes to you with a problem.”
It was hard, and incredibly painful—especially to share when I had a problem, but Mabel was right. We’ve never had a big friend fight because of the ground rules she laid down, and the expectation that if we have a problem, we tell each other.
But I don’t know how to tell her that it can’t be like that with my family. With my brother. Even the thought of trying to talk to them, to tell them anything serious, makes me break out in hives.
I open my mouth to say something—maybe even just to tell them I’m way too keyed up to talk about my brother right now—but I don’t get the chance to.
“Do you hear that?” Mabel asks, her voice dropping to barely audible as we all stare at the front door.
Of course we heard it. A creaking from right outside our apartment. Like someone is standing outside our door.
“What the fuck?” Hattie whispers, grabbing a throw pillow and holding it tight. “Why am I actually really scared?”
Mabel stands, rolling her eyes and stalking over to the door. I follow her cautiously, and when she bends down slightly to look through the peephole, she turns around to face us, shaking her head. “Nothing,” she says, “there’s nobody out there.”
Right after she says it, there’s another creak, and we jump like cats, our gazes swinging to the door again. I step past Mabel and look through the peephole, but I don’t see anyone, either.
“Maybe someone’s pet got out,” I say, grabbing the handle.
“Elsie,” Hattie warns, “don’t—”
But it’s too late—I’m already swinging the door open, and already really regretting it.