Page 17 of Sexting the Coach (Pucking Daddies #6)

Weston

My first stupid thought when I see Elsie’s name on my phone screen is that she might be sexting me again.

Then, I see it’s not a text, it’s a phone call—and hear the vibration of the thing against the floor. I must have dropped it when I slid from sitting down to reclining.

It takes my brain a solid few seconds to reboot, and when it does, I reach down, grabbing for my phone and sliding my thumb over it to answer the call.

“Elsie?” my voice is rough when it comes out, heavy from sleep.

I was just drifting to sleep on my couch, the film from today’s game still replaying on the TV. It’s a tradition for me—I like to watch the film right after the game and take notes, so everything is fresh. The decisions I made and why, what I was thinking for each line change.

I’ve been doing it since I was a player, except back then, I was watching for my passes, my thinking in the moment. Why did I shoot? Why didn’t I? What was I thinking when I earned time in the penalty box?

Usually, it’s a routine that brings me comfort. But today, each time I got to the end of the recording, I couldn’t stop myself from watching the part where Elsie stood up from her seat, taking the stairs quickly, turning into the bench, and throwing herself at me.

Just a little blue blur running down the stairs, then throwing her arms around me.

The footage came from the Squids admin, and not from the live broadcast, so I didn’t see the version that must be playing across TVs throughout the nation—a version that shows Elsie and I on the kiss cam, our faces framed in a neon pink heart.

By the time I finally drifted off to sleep, I was half-hard and fully frustrated.

“Weston,” Elsie says now, her voice with a slight buzz to it. Her tone is breathless, and it might excite me if it weren’t for the undercurrent of fear.

I sit up immediately, my Blue Crabs blanket sliding off my body and halfway to the floor. My muscles flex, and I’m rising up off the couch, already standing, moving to the door.

Maybe I haven’t known Elsie that long, and maybe we’re not really dating, but I know enough to know that she needs me right now.

“What’s going on?”

“It’s—” she pauses, takes a shaky breath. “There are people here, outside the apartment. In the street. One of them got past the doorman. Said he was a Doordasher.”

“People?” I ask, pausing in the middle of pulling on my jacket. “What do you mean, people?”

“Paparazzi,” she clarifies, having the good sense to sound a little embarrassed at that revelation.

I know that feeling all too well. Trying to tell people that you’re dealing with the paparazzi is a two-fold event—first, the embarrassment of admitting it, which makes you feel like a self-important ass, and second, the fact of the press themselves.

As a kid who grew up with nothing—and completely outside the lens of any fame—walking right into it with Leda had felt like walking into a different universe.

It was like the world had changed overnight.

All the rules I thought I understood, the rules I thought everyone abided by, they were suddenly out the window.

Private space didn’t exist at all. And the worst part was that Leda thought I was overreacting most of the time.

“It’s their job. It’s not a big deal—we ignore them, they bother us for a while, then we move past it. Think of it like walking through a crowd of gnats at the zoo.”

But gnats weren’t hiding in your bushes with cameras or shoving their microphones in your face. They weren’t asking probing questions, or assuming that if your wife gained a little weight, she was expecting.

The questions about pregnancy were frequent and invasive. And a massive reminder to me that Leda didn’t—and never would—want kids.

It’s something I had to be okay with. And when our marriage started to crumble a decade later, I realized that by being okay with it, I’d made a permanent decisions about that area of my life.

“Weston? Are you there?”

“Yeah,” I croak, veins fizzing with adrenaline as I stand and move to the other side of the room, already reaching for my keys. It’s cold enough that I should unearth my winter coats, but I’ve been lazy about it, and there’s no time now. “I’ll be there in five.”

I might drive a little recklessly, but I make it to Elsie’s place in just four minutes. This time, instead of parking alongside of the building, I pull up through the alleyway, my headlight illuminating a lone beer can turned on its side by a dumpster.

Just like it said in the text I received, a garage door opens for me, and I turn in, cringing at how tight it is between the cement blocks.

A tall woman with waist-length, pin-straight red hair stands by the garage door, motioning me into a spot. Mabel—she works for the Squids, too.

“Come on,” she says, simply, when I park in the spot and follow her up.

“I’m not going to get towed, am I?” I ask, glancing back at my car.

“That’s my spot,” Mabel says, flashing me a brief dry smile. “So, no.”

When I step into the elevator with Mabel, I can’t stop myself from thinking about the last time I was here with Elsie. The lights going out, conveniently. That thread of tension between us snapping, pulling me to her, making it impossible for me to keep my hands to myself.

Finding her already slick for me, the heat between her legs, the sound of her breathing in my ear.

“Are you coming?”

I blink and swallow, eyes focusing on Mabel, who stands in the elevator watching me. “Right—yeah.”

When I walk into Elsie’s living room, I feel like a dad checking in on a slumber party. She’s sitting on the couch, her face in her hands, a girl with short black hair is in a pair of pajamas, rubbing her back.

The girl—who must be Hattie, her other roommate—is in the middle of saying something, and when she looks at me, she doesn’t miss a beat, “…because his ex-wife said something about it.”

“My ex-wife?” I ask, and at the sound of my voice, Elsie’s face snaps up. Her eyes are red, her cheeks damp, and I feel my hands tightening to fists at my sides. Fucking paparazzi.

“Yes,” Hattie says, nodding. “I guess she’s not super thrilled about…your new relationship.”

“Just fucking great,” I mutter, eyes tracking Mabel as she crosses the room, lifting a curtain and glancing out the window.

“They’re still out there,” she says, the light from outside illuminating her face for a moment, before she drops the curtain back into place. Turning to face us, she says, “More of them, now.”

“You’re all welcome to come stay at my place,” I say, clearing my throat and crossing my arms. “Since this whole thing is my fault.”

“It’s not,” Elsie protests, “I should have known better than to open the door—”

“You shouldn’t have to be uncomfortable in your own home.”

“And why would your place be any better?” Mabel questions, raising a cool eyebrow in my direction.

“Fence,” I offer, returning her level gaze. “Locked gate. Paparazzi isn’t getting into my property unless they want to get electrocuted.”

“Is that even legal?” Hattie asks, eyebrows shooting up.

“Doesn’t matter,” I say, gaze moving to Elsie. “I want you to come. They’re not going away tonight, I promise you that. Especially if Leda is riling them up.”

“Sorry,” Hattie laughs, waving her hands in front of her face, “You just—you’re so casual about it! You married a movie star. Sorry—it’s just weird.”

I let out a laugh, shaking my head at this interesting character, then return my gaze to Elsie, who’s fiddling with a ring, turning it around and around her pinkie finger.

“Well,” Mabel says, her voice a little louder, “I’m more than comfortable staying here. Let another one of them come up here, and this time, I’ll be the one to open the door.”

“If Mabel is staying, then so am I,” Hattie seconds.

I’m still looking at Elsie, who looks like she might be sick. “Elsie?”

She glances first at Mabel, then at Hattie. Something passes through them that I can’t translate, then she glances at me.

“It won’t be…too much trouble?”

Something in my chest relaxes. She’s coming with me tonight. Part of me knew I wasn’t going to be leaving without her—I’d sleep right outside their fucking door if that’s what it took—but it feels good to know she’s coming home with me. Where I can keep her safe.

“You’ll have your pick of guest rooms,” I say. “And I’m used to this kind of thing. My place is pretty press-proof.”

Once again, the girls look at one another, and Elsie stands quietly, disappearing into her room for a moment before returning with an overnight bag. Maybe it’s presumptuous to think she already had it packed. But I don’t see how she could have gotten it together so quickly otherwise.

We go downstairs, and Mabel opens the garage for us. Then I’m slipping back out into the night, this time with Elsie in the passenger seat. The paparazzi have not, apparently, caught on to the alleyway and garage, so we bump out onto the road without issue, passing by the gaggle of them.

The lights flash over her face, and I clear my throat, “You can talk to me about it, if you want.”

She gives a nervous laugh, “It’s not a big deal. I think I just need to sleep it off.”

I nod, and the ride back to my place takes longer than it did on the way out. Now that I have Elsie, I drive with more care.

We say nothing during the drive back to my place, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. If Elsie has any thoughts about my place—including the gate that slides open for us when we approach—she doesn’t voice them.

Ten minutes later, I’m clearing my throat and setting her duffel bag down in the guest room down the hall from me.

“I’m that door there,” I say, and then regret it, because although I meant it for if she needs something, I fear my cock is getting different ideas. I clear my throat again and step toward the doorway as she looks at me.

For the first time, Elsie’s face isn’t wide open. I can’t tell what’s going on in that brain of hers, and I’m not a fan of being on the outside.

‘Thank you,” she murmurs, then I’m closing the door and forcing myself to walk down the hall, one foot in front of the other. I close my bedroom door, stop and stare at the sliding balcony door directly across from me, take a deep breath.

My body practically sways with the urge to go back to her, to make sure she’s okay.

She’s not okay. I know that.

And I also know that making sure she’s okay isn’t my only urge. Because the moment I ran a soothing hand over her shoulder, or brushed the hair out of her face, it would be just like in that elevator again. I can’t trust myself around her.

Which is why it’s a good idea for me to stay here, in this room, until the morning. When the sun is up, I’ll be much more capable of keeping control of myself.

I exercise my willpower, going into the bathroom, brushing my teeth, grooming my beard, changing into my pajamas. That’s one benefit of what happened tonight—it kept me from falling asleep on the couch, uncomfortable and not ready for bed.

When I’m done with my nighttime routine, I walk into my bedroom, but don’t climb into the bed.

It’s a four-poster thing, some antique Leda picked out when we were together.

Some of my friends suggested that I get rid of all the furniture we got together, but I’ve never been that sentimental, and besides, I like the thing.

Plus, she was hardly home enough for it to feel like our bed.

Instead of getting into bed, I start to pace, running my hands through my hair. Maybe I should go check on Elsie. Maybe she’s still feeling shaken up about the whole thing.

No—that’s just me finding a way to go to her room.

I go back and forth, pacing, arguing with myself, until my hand is reaching for the doorknob, and I throw the door to my room open, knowing I’m about to make a huge mistake.

And there’s Elsie, standing in the threshold, her mouth in a perfect little o, her hand raised to knock on my door.