Page 29 of Sexting the Coach (Pucking Daddies #6)
Weston
“We need to talk.”
When I look up from the footage on my screen—which I wasn’t actually paying attention to—I find Bernie in the doorway to my office. His normal good-natured smile is gone, replaced by something like stern concern.
“Okay.” I click away from the video and lean back in my seat. I already have an idea of what he wants to talk about. Me and Fincher fighting last night during our home game. The team losing the game, likely having something to do with my mood shift. Everything is my fucking fault.
And, to make matters worse, my hip has been killing me. According to the internet, stress can make the swelling worse. It likely also has to do with the fact that up until now, I’ve been working with Elsie, going through the treatments, stretching, and strengthening the muscles around the joint.
“I don’t normally like to bother with peoples’ personal lives,” Bernie says, clearing his throat. “But at this point, Weston, it’s getting hard to ignore.”
“Did Fincher send you in here?”
Bernie’s eyebrows fly up, and he looks hurt. I regret saying it—Bernie has been on my side throughout this whole mess. I shouldn’t have implied anything else.
But I’m on edge.
“No,” Bernie says, sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose. “You know that, though. I’m on your side. I think you’re this team’s best shot at getting to the Cup. But I also know that whatever is going on with that girl—”
“Elsie,” I correct, even though it feels juvenile.
“Elsie,” Bernie amends, looking to the ceiling for a moment. “Whatever is going on with Elsie is fucking things up for us, son.”
Maybe it’s the fact that he’s coming to me like this, or maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t spoken to my actual father since last Christmas.
He was always more of a football guy. Big Patriots fan, didn’t understand my interest in hockey.
Thought it was too chaotic, that the consistent marching down a 100-yard field was much more interesting to watch than the constant back-and-forth of a hockey game.
And, somehow, that difference in interests, in opinions, managed to set me adrift from my entire family. No big drama, to fight or incident, like Elsie. Just a slow creep of our lives being different until I find myself here, confiding in Bernie like he’s my real dad.
“I’m in love with her,” I say, quietly. “But I’m pretty sure she doesn’t feel that way about me. Or, if she does, the age thing is in the way. Or my past. Or—”
I stop myself just short of mentioning my hip. Part of me knows I could confide in him about this, but I don’t. The last thing I need is for Fincher to overhear it, blame the recent bad streak of losses on my aching hip.
Bernie closes the door to my office, sinks down into the chair across from my desk. For a long moment, we sit quietly together, and he finally takes a deep breath, looking up and meeting my gaze.
“You know,” he says, “there are some people in life who are able to balance everything perfectly. Who get to have a career and the family. Everything works out. I hate to say it, Weston, but I’ve never gotten that feeling about you.
It seems to me that it’s going to have to be one or the other for you.
And if that girl isn’t interested…maybe it’s a good idea for you to focus your attention on the team. ”
It’s a fucking blow.
My chest squeezes in, and I rub at it, concerned for a second that I might actually be having a heart attack.
It never felt like this with Leda.
Probably because I was never really in love with her.
“But who knows,” Bernie says shrugging and leaning back in his seat, letting out a breath and meeting my gaze.
“I could be wrong about it. It’s up to you, boss.
But I’d think long and hard about where your priorities lie before you accidentally let go of something without realizing how devastating it might be to lose it. ”
With that, Bernie nods, stands up, and moves for the door. I sit with the weight of his advice, feeling uncertain. Unsure.
He’s got ten years on me. More knowledge, more wisdom.
And, for some reason, I can’t shake the feeling that the guy doesn’t really know what he’s saying. That maybe my ability to have both lies within me, and not in the hands of the universe.
Then again, it’s not like I have any evidence to show that.
Cursing under my breath, I stand and grab an unsharpened pencil from my desk. Then I snap the thing in half, drop the two pieces into the trash, and walk out of my office without looking back.
Of course, I’m coming down the stairs to the locker rooms when my hip twinges and my leg floods with pain.
“Fuck,” I hiss, stopping at the bottom and resisting the urge to clutch at the thing. There’s the constant, dull ache of the injury, but I’ve gotten used to that, so it’s nothing more than background noise in the day-to-day of my life.
This pain is nothing like that. This pain is imminent, directly in my face, and pressing. I breathe through it and take the rest of the steps down to the hallway outside the locker room, only to come face-to-face with the one guy I don’t want to see.
“What’s up with you?” Fincher asks, eyeing me up and down, something glinting over his face. He knows what’s wrong with me—or that something is wrong with me. He’s been hunting that fact out like a fucking bloodhound since the day I got the coaching position over him.
“Nothing,” I grunt, stepping to move past him, but Fincher blocks my path, and if it weren’t for the pain ricocheting through my body, that I can practically feel in my fucking teeth, I would level him here and now. “Get out of my way—”
“I’m concerned for you,” Fincher says, though his voice drips with a condescension that’s nowhere near concern. “Are you limping?”
Without even looking past him, I can see that we have an audience. Bernie and some of the other assistant coaches are standing outside the locker room. Likely, the players can hear this exchange, especially considering how fucking loud Fincher is talking.
“Move out of my way.”
“You need to be honest with the team, Wolfe,” Fincher snaps, gesturing back to the other coaches. “If you’re not at one hundred percent—”
“He’s fine, Fincher,” Bernie says, stepping forward, raising his hands up like this is a hostage negotiation. “And now is not the time to be getting into this. The guys are in there, and the last thing they need is to hear coaches going at it.”
“Of course you’re defending him,” Fincher says, rolling his eyes and turning to address the other coaches. “Let’s all just be fucking honest for a moment. Has Wolfe, or has he not been distracted? If it’s not the injury, then it’s something to do with that little blond bitch from PT—”
I don’t even realize I’m swinging until my fist collides with Fincher’s jaw.
He lurches back so my knuckles only graze his skin, and he practically falls into Miles, one of the other coaches.
Miles holds Fincher for only a moment before pushing him up onto his feet and stepping away as Fincher stumbles.
Bernie and Perkins have their arms around me, holding me back.
“Get off me,” I mutter, but I know better.
Miles pushes Fincher back, to the end of the hallway, telling him he needs to fuck off for saying that about Elsie, that they’ll all be reporting him to HR.
I could beat his ass right now, but if I chase him down and lay him out, it’s not going to look good for anyone.
After a second, the guys let go of me and I straighten up, glancing at each of them in kind. The hallway is full of uncertain tension.
“Thanks for having my back,” I say, frowning and straightening out my shirt. My hands still buzz with the urge to throttle Fincher for talking like that, but I manage to shove it down.
“Of course,” Bernie says.
“Any time,” Miles adds.
“Fincher is a fucking asshole,” Orla mutters, and when we all laugh, some of the tension diffuses. I roll my shoulders and turn to the locker room.
“We just need to stay focused right now,” Bernie says, and the other coaches are nodding, too.
“You’re right,” I breathe, looking up at the ceiling. “The next string of games is vital for making it to the play-offs. We all need to have our heads on straight.”
As head coach, it’s not just my job to the get the players ready—it’s my job to make sure the assistant coaches are able to do their jobs, too. As much as I wanted to punch Fincher in his stupid fucking face, maybe there’s a note of truth to what he was saying.
Maybe I’ve been a little too distracted.
I push through the door into the locker room, already thinking about what I’m going to say to hype the team up, get them ready to play their fucking hearts out tonight. Then I realize that at least that whole thing with Fincher did one thing right—I completely forgot about the pain in my hip.
“Alright!” I stand in the middle of the players, looking around at them, clapping my hands together so loud that some of them jump.
The last thing I want right now is despondency, the sort of quiet in here that tells me they definitely overheard that fight out in the hallway.
Pushing everything else away, I turn in a circle, focusing on what I can do right at this moment.
Which is firing up the guys for this game.
“Who’s ready to kick some ass?”