Page 19 of Sexting the Coach (Pucking Daddies #6)

Weston

Sleeping with Elsie was a real fucking mistake.

Because I haven’t been able to think about anything else, and I didn’t even get my cock in her. Tasting her, feeling her come around me, it was almost—almost—as satisfying as a release of my own, and that’s something I’ve never felt with another woman.

I was consumed by her. And I don’t have to be a genius to know that a connection like that is dangerous as hell.

Only there was a strange look on her face this morning, when she ran out of my room. Like she was hiding something. Surely, she thought the whole thing was a mistake, too.

I mean, she literally said oh, God. She sat up like she was waking up from a nightmare, rather than from a night of sleeping next to me.

When I came back from the bathroom, Elsie was fully out, curled into my sheets. I’d tried to wake her, to encourage her to pee or at least wipe up, but she just murmured into the pillow, reaching up and pulling me down next to her.

She’d kissed me on the temple in her sleepy haze, and the feeling that rushed through me was dangerous.

And, yeah, maybe I’d thought about tucking her body into mine, waiting until the next morning to finish what I started. Maybe I’d been a little bit tortured, sleeping next to her fully naked.

But there was also something nice about it. As I was falling asleep, I’d thought of it as the beginning of something.

When I woke up, though, I quickly saw how much of an idiot I’d been the night before, thinking she and I could ever get away with casual sex. The look on her face was like she’d made a mistake, so I’d filled in the rest, not wanting to hear it come from her mouth.

Besides, I meant what I said. It would be better for both of us to avoid getting physical.

No matter how filthy my thoughts have been about her since getting a taste of what it’s like to have her in my bed.

Now, I jump when the door to the PT room swings open, pulling me out of my thoughts. Elsie walks in, wearing her team polo and a pair of tan slacks. It takes everything in me not to look her up and down. Not to think of a million positions we could try in this room.

“You’re here,” she says, her eyebrows raising.

“You said seven,” I say, flicking my eyes toward the clock.

“Yeah, but I thought—” she clears her throat, looks up toward the ceiling. “I guess I thought that things would be weird between us. So, you might not want to…?”

I bottle up everything I’m feeling for her, shove it somewhere deep down inside of me, and crack a completely unaffected smile in her direction. “I don’t feel weird—do you feel weird?”

Something flashes over her face, then I catch her buying it.

“Oh, yeah,” she says, laughing and pushing her hair out of her face. “I mean—I did this morning, but it’s not a big deal. I mean, we’re friends, right?”

“Right.” It’s a big deal to me. But I’m not going to let her catch on to that. “Friends.”

Elsie dives right into the treatment, running me through stretches and exercises, marking down details on my progress.

“Okay, so,” she says, five minutes later, lifting her eyes to mine. “Since we’re friends, are you going to tell me about what’s going on with that assistant coach?”

I raise an eyebrow at her, “What do you mean?”

“Mike Fincher,” she says, sounding exasperated. “The one who’s constantly undermining you.”

“Right,” I grunt when a ripple of pain rolls down from my hip and into my leg. “Well, the short story is that Fincher and I were friends last year, and now he hates my guts.”

“Because you got the head coaching job?” Elsie asks, shaking her head.

“I mean, yeah—guy doesn’t get it. And in some ways, it doesn’t make sense. I’m younger than him, less experience, less seniority.”

“But you’re a better coach,” Elsie says, which makes me laugh.

“And how would you know?”

“Than Fincher?” she quirks an eyebrow at me over her clipboard. “Because he’s the kind of person who tries to undermine others. He clearly doesn’t actually care about the team’s performance more than his own ego, or he wouldn’t be constantly scheming against you now.”

“Scheming is a strong word.”

“Oh, really? What do you call bursting in here all the time? It’s like he’s desperate to find out there’s something wrong with you.”

“Oh, is there something wrong with me?” I ask, and I realize too late that we’re flirting, and I’m leaning in closer to her, my eyes dropping to her neck. What I wouldn’t give to get my mouth on her again.

There are a million ways I want to touch Elsie Montgomery, and just not enough time or space for it.

Maybe in another life.

“No,” she says, seeming to shake herself loose and step away from me, swallowing. “No, there’s not. You’re injured, but you’re still the best coach in the NHL.”

I cross my arms, shooting her an arrogant smile, “Oh, wow, really? Even better than Harrison Clark?”

She gives me a cheeky grin in turn, “I said best coach, not best-looking coach.”

I roll my eyes, ignoring the streak of jealousy that courses through me. I know she’s joking, but it doesn’t stop me from wanting to say something like, you thought I was pretty good-looking last night.

“So, if we’re sharing as friends,” I try, as she hands me an exercise band. “Does that mean you’re going to tell me about your brother?”

She freezes, her eyes flicking to mine like a deer caught in the headlights. “What about him?”

The look on her face is enough for me to know that there’s something going on there, but there’s also the thing she said about the title of her autobiography. About the painting her brother made for her, that Hattie and Mabel repaired.

How she dances away from the subject each time her brother comes up. Like now.

“So—what does he do?” I ask, tipping my head at her as I start to pull on the bands, repeating the same movements I’ve been doing for several weeks. For the first time, I realize it doesn’t actually hurt as much as it did the first time—progress.

Elsie opens her mouth, shuts it again, “I’m not really sure. We don’t talk much.”

My eyebrows shoot up. It’s hard for me to imagine Elsie holding a grudge against anyone, especially her own sibling. “Damn. What did he do to you?”

Her face goes slightly pale, “I mean—nothing. Actually, I’m pretty sure he’s mad at me.”

“What do you mean, pretty sure?”

She shrugs one shoulder, touches my knee in a silent directive to fix my posture. “We don’t really…talk. In my family.”

This is something she and I might have in common. Though my disconnect from my family just comes from how different my life is now, how each time I come for the holidays, there are more and more things separating us.

When I married Leda, my parents acted like I was engaged to an alien, rather than a movie star. Small town folk not interested in the fuss and glamor associated with the spotlight.

While I’m thinking about my family, about Elsie, we finish our session, and Elsie starts to pack up.

I pause, biting my tongue for a moment as my hip starts to throb.

I want to talk to her about last night—I get the sense that there’s a disconnect here somewhere, but I don’t know how to approach it.

So, instead, I clear my throat and turn back to the other topic at hand. “He’s not my brother, and I know how hard it can be to be the first one to talk. But, for what it’s worth—a conversation might go a long way for the two of you.”

Elsie pauses, holds my gaze for a moment, then nods. I might think she’s completely disregarded the advice, but I see the corners of her lips turn down. She’s thinking about it. Considering it.

And maybe that has to be enough for now.

“Hey, man,” Harrison Clark reaches out and slides his hand into mine, and I suppress the fan boy inside me that’s practically foaming at the mouth. “Nice to see you again.”

It’s a weird thing, in professional sports, to be constantly confronted with your hero.

Harrison was just at the top of his game when I was graduating high school, looking at my pick of college programs. He was the guy I looked up to, breaking records and playing the game with a sort of flair that I appreciated.

And, even better, he played for the Blue Crabs. As a Boston kid through and through, I bought his jersey before he even suited up for his first game. I knew he was going to be good, and I was right.

Then, the first time we played against each other—even though we weren’t really that far apart in years—the league painted it as a rivalry of generations.

It was fun playing against him, and though I’d always held out hope that he and I might end up on the same team, he retired before that could happen.

He always treated me like a little brother, a friendly sort of competition that not a lot of guys could pull off back then.

Now, he looks his age, with that silver hair Elsie mentioned.

He’s embraced it, wearing it proudly, and for a second, it makes me wonder if I could do that, too.

There’s also a tattoo peeking out from under his right sleeve.

It’s not like I’m fanatic about the guy, but if I had to guess, I’d imagine the tattoo has something to do with his recently-born first child. Maybe their name, or birthday.

“You as well,” I say, giving his hand a firm shake and stepping back. The ref says something, and we nod along. As we break away from one another, Harrison catches my eye.

“Congrats on getting that head coaching spot,” he says, eyes flicking to the bench.

“Thanks,” I say, dipping my head, wondering if he’s aware of the tension over on my side of the arena.

Fincher hasn’t been quiet about his displeasure, and it’s embarrassing how easy it is to pick up on.

Clark had a whole drama last year with a player who went missing—maybe the guy could give me some advice.

“Honestly, I’d be thrilled to get a couple of pointers from you. ”

I don’t mean to say it out loud, but it comes out, and Harrison raises his eyebrows, laughing and clapping me on the back, “Any time,” he says, good-naturedly, “except for now. No offense, but I’m not about to coach you on how to take me down.”

“Fair,” I laugh, already buzzing with the fact that he said any time. I would make time to get pointers from Harrison Clark. “I’m gonna hold you to that, man.”

When I get back over to my bench, I’m re-energized and ready to coach this game.

Our guys line up, Daugherty hunkering down for the opening face-off.

The Crabs and Squids are pretty evenly matched, with the league marketing this game as the sea creatures from either coast—Blue Crabs in Boston, and the Squids here in San Francisco.

Daugherty wins the face-off, the crack of sticks and slice of skates cutting through the cheers ringing out through the arena. It’s always loud here, but tonight it feels even more so, the crowd—which is mostly Squids colors, but with a surprising amount of Crabs blue mixed in—rowdier than ever.

We get into the swing of things, and to my credit, I only have the urge to look up at Elsie a handful of times.

Hockey is one of the few things that’s been able to get her out of my head, and I try to sink into that feeling, focusing on our play, shouting to the players, communicating with the other coaches.

Our goalie—Toney Proctor—is having a knockout game, blocking shots even I would have assumed a lost cause. We end the second period on a block from him, which keeps us firmly in the lead—just one point over the Crabs.

In the third period, our energy just continues to grow, but the Crabs get better too, each team rising to the level of its opponent. The crowd is electric, and with two minutes left on the clock, I can’t stop myself—I turn and look up at the spot I know Elsie will occupy.

She’s already staring back at me, her hands together in a clap, pink rushing over her cheeks when our eyes meet.

I turn my attention back to the ice. The Crabs score, finally getting past Proctor. Score is tied, each of us with one goal. I’ve been swapping lines quick to try and keep the Crabs on their heels, and now I pull O’Connell to the side just before I put the first line back on the ice.

“Go for it,” I say, meeting his eyes. “Make the play, man.”

A coach said that to me once, early in my career, and the sound of it made my blood fizz with potential.

I see that same thing flash over O’Connell’s expression now, and when I let go of his jersey, he vaults over the boards with the rest of the guys, jumping out onto the ice and flying into the game full throttle.

He makes the play, bringing us up one in the last thirty seconds. The cheering is deafening, and when the game is over I turn, surprised to find Elsie standing next to me, looking up at me with a strange expression.

“I guess PR really liked it when we did this last time,” she whispers, biting her bottom lip for a moment before letting it go. “Sorry—hug?”

I swallow as the celebration continues on around us. I want to do a lot more than hug her.

But I nod and reach down, sliding my arms around her, pulling her up and against my body, breathing in her scent, until the world around us goes completely and totally quiet.