Page 25 of Sexting the Coach (Pucking Daddies #6)

Weston

What a stupid, stupid thing for me to say.

I think about that moment again and again as I drive home, replaying it in my mind like some sort of sick torture tape.

I was feeling too fucking soft. Too vulnerable with her.

After all that talk—her opening up to me about her brother. Us talking about Leda, about my injury. For some reason, I let that get to me, let it make me think that there could ever be something between us.

I’ve forgotten all the reasons why this would never work in the first place.

In fact, the entire reason we’re in this situation, pretending at a relationship that could never be real, is because the coach before me went and did the kind of shit people think about when they see a guy like me and a woman like Elsie.

I’m too old for her. She’s just starting her career, while I’m already in the second stage of my own. Elsie is good. That’s why she lied for me all those months ago, outside that cabin. She didn’t want me to lose my job, my career, my reputation.

But that doesn’t mean she wants a relationship with me.

When I get home, I pull the car in through the gate and take a second to try and breathe through the stupid, pointless rage that’s burning through my body. After a second, I open the car door, ignore the annoying dinging, and stand up.

The moment I do, a little strike of pain shoots through my hip.

“Fuck!” I slam the car door harder than I should and freeze, praying the violence doesn’t shatter the glass. When everything is still, I take another deep, steadying breath and begin the slow walk into my place.

My hip doesn’t hurt that bad.

In fact, it hasn’t been nearly as painful as it was before Elsie insisted on giving me treatments. But that doesn’t mean it’s not just another shitty reminder of the differences between us.

She might have that trauma of hurting her brother, but I’m actually injured. Practically on my way out. And there’s no amount of charm or spark between us that’s going to change that fact.

I resist the urge to text her and force myself to go to sleep. I force myself not to think about the fact that just this morning, we were together in this bed. And now she’s back at her apartment without me, likely talking to her roommates about how she and I are never going to happen.

It’s fine.

It’s good.

It’s exactly what I fucking want.

Elsie was supposed to come with us to New York today for the game, but she called in sick. I realized it the moment I saw another PT boarding the plane instead, sitting with the other therapists and trainers. The seat next to me remained empty.

When we were getting off the plane, I overheard Loraine—the head of PT—saying she called in sick. A stomach bug, she said, that she hoped the rest of the team would not catch.

I managed to show some restraint and kept from texting her. I only called her once when I got to the arena this morning, asking if we could talk.

And when she didn’t text me back, I figured I would talk to her on the plane. That I could tell her I understand the reasons we can’t actually be together. That when I said it would be nice for our relationship to be real, I didn’t mean it was something I actually thought would happen.

“Wolfe,” Bernie says, eyes darting to me now. We’re standing just outside the locker room together. My assistant coach gestures to the clipboard in my hand and pulls me out of my thoughts. “Dude, relax your hold on that thing. You’re going to bust it.”

“Ha,” I force out, because I know he’s joking, and because Fincher’s stupid pointy nose is swiveled in our direction, and the last thing I need right now is to give him any more fuel.

He’s been acting extra douchey today, pulling aside players for private chats and loudly voicing his opinions on the lines for today’s game.

“So, Fincher’s being a doll, today” Bernie says, and I can tell he’s trying to get me to smile. It occurs to me that, for the past few months, I’ve been an easier man to get along with. Maybe that has something to do with the blond who’s been in my bed.

Elsie and I started this charade back in July, just after the team bonding camp. It’s been just around four months of fake dating, and she managed to twist me into a happy man that I’m just not.

Today must feel like a rude fucking awakening for the other coaches. For the guys on the team. Because, apparently, I don’t have much to be happy about anymore.

We’ve been working on our approach to this game all week. The guys know the Rangers inside and out, which guys to watch, what most of our match-ups look like. I think we’re going to be better conditioned than them, and that’s what I’m banking on today.

Letting out a stream of air, I turn and walk into the locker room.

Inside, the guys sit in their full gear, waiting for me. Several of them have their heads bowed, their sticks held loosely between their legs. Everything is taped and ready to go.

All they’re waiting on now is a speech from their fearless leader. We’re coming into this game off a four-game winning streak. People in the league are starting to seriously talk about our shot at the Stanley Cup.

But I can’t think about that now.

I can’t think about Elsie, I can’t think about Fincher. Right now, I have to focus on these guys, get them riled up to focus on the game ahead of us.

“Listen up.” When I speak, the guys straighten up, coming to attention, their eyes flying to me. I stand still for a moment in the center of them, having a weird sense of something being wrong.

Only a few years ago, I was the guy sitting on the bench, looking to my coach for motivation. For the fire under my ass that would propel me into the game.

I’ve had coaches, throughout my hockey career who would use this time to go over our strategy. To re-hash our plans for defense and offense, which guys we should watch out for and target on the other team.

Right now, I could tell them to watch out for Sanchez and Rodgers, that those two know how to communicate. I could re-hash our strategy to rely on my assumption that we’re better conditioned than the Rangers, who have been relying on talent for a little too long.

But if they haven’t gathered all this throughout the week of practice, then it’s not worth repeating now. Instead, as the guys jostle and tip their skates nervously, staring at me, I focus on the most important stuff.

“We’ve been winning,” I say, turning and walking the length of the space between the benches. Each of the players is in the same outfit—white pants, inky blue jersey. Black helmet loose on their heads, straps dangling down. “It’s a good feeling, right?”

Nobody speaks up to answer that question.

“In fact,” I say, turning and pacing to the other side of the room. “We haven’t lost a game this season. Beat the Sharks, beat the Blue Crabs. Our toughest games, and we pulled through easy. Came in strong, held that.”

The guys start to shift like they’re waiting for the other shoe to drop. Smart.

“Well, here’s the thing about winning streaks.

” I try to keep the hard edge from my voice, try not to think about the pain in my hip that’s been going away.

My happiness at having Elsie in that big house of mine.

Of waking up next to her and finding her ready in my arms. “The thing about winning streaks is that they make you too fucking comfortable. You know the last time I had a six-game winning streak?”

Maybe they know, maybe they don’t.

“It was two years ago,” I say, voice hard when I think about that season.

The season I ignored the injury in my hip to make it to the Stanley Cup, only to lose spectacularly.

We came out strong that year, just like the Squids are now.

We won almost all our games, all the while my hip was slowly giving up on the season when I wasn’t ready to let go.

“And I was playing for this team. We let that winning streak get to our heads. So, as far as you’re all concerned, this is our first game of the season.

Not a single fucking win under our belts.

We’ve got something to prove out there on the ice tonight! ”

Bernie is grinning from the doorway, while Fincher’s face holds the same disdain that hasn’t left since the day we found out I’d be taking the coaching position.

“Stand up.”

It only takes a second, and my players are getting to their feet. Other coaches might not go this hard for a random, mid-season game. But I’m not other fucking coaches.

“Think about where you are,” I say, lowering my voice, stopping to look each of them in the eye.

“Think about the kid you were fifteen, twenty years ago. Think about how fucking ecstatic he would have been going into this game. Even a boring, predictable game against one of the worst teams in the league. Would he have left a single fucking thing on the ice tonight?”

“No.”

“What? I couldn’t fucking hear you!”

“No!”

“Who are we?”

“Squids!”

“What are we going to do!”

“Leave it on the ice!”

They’re vibrating with energy now, their voices booming through the locker room. I stand in the middle of it, nodding, turning, clapping them on the shoulders.

“That’s fucking right,” I say, “now, get out of my face.”

They file out of the locker room, jostling, hooting, raising their sticks in the air. This is what it should look like before a hockey game.

This sport has been cooling down since I first became a fan. Things are slightly more civil. Fights happen less often now, certainly they feel less fun than when I was a kid, watching the gloves fly on the ice.

But I’m tired of this lukewarm energy.

“It’s not the fucking play-offs,” Fincher quips when I go to walk by him.

Just another one of his little comments. Any other day, I would walk by him. Last week, my mind would have been too preoccupied to give a fuck about him.

But now?

“What the fuck did you say?”

He blinks, surprised when I whirl around to face him. Comically, he backs up but finds he has nowhere to go.

But I’m not laughing. He might have a few inches and a few years on me, but he and I both know I’d lay him out if it came to it. And I’ve got plenty of other shit to be pissed off about right now.

“Coach,” Bernie says, reaching out and putting his hand on my arm.

“You got something to say,” I say, pushing Bernie’s arm away and focusing in on Fincher, whose lips pull in tight.

“You say it to my face, is that clear? I’m the head coach.

If you don’t like it, fucking quit. The next time you make a little comment under your breath, I’m not going to be so forgiving. ”

I turn and blow out of the locker room, pushing past several Rangers staff, knowing this little confrontation is probably going to make the rounds quickly. It’ll probably be on social media by the opening face-off.

But I don’t give a fuck.

Right now, the only thing I’m focusing on is the game we’re about to win.