Page 30 of Sexting the Coach (Pucking Daddies #6)
Elsie
I’ve only been to the HR department twice since getting my job with the San Francisco Squids. First, when I stopped by to get my benefits package and fill out the paperwork for my tax stuff. And second, when Weston and I came together to make our relationship official.
So, when I woke up this morning to an email from human resources, asking me to come in for a meeting, it made my heart jump into my throat.
There’s only one reason they’re asking me to come in today.
I’ve missed almost two full weeks of work at this point. Even though I’ve been calling in dutifully, and even sent over a vague doctor’s note about stomach problems—a purposeful rephrasing of “morning sickness”—it’s not like they were going to keep me on the team forever if I never showed up.
My mom hasn’t been subtle about her disapproval. “Are you sure you’re too sick to go into work? Karlee told your father the doctor’s note just said stomach problems. You know how the doctors can be, not giving women proper diagnoses. Should I come and go to an appointment with you?”
“No,” I’d said it a little too fast, and when I did, nausea pushed right up into my throat. I’d taken a deep breath, stared at the ceiling, and said in a small voice, “I’m starting to feel better. Maybe I can go into work next week.”
And the next morning, I got an email from HR. Taking the decision out of my hands.
I got out of bed. Washed my hair, flossed, and put on some make-up. Put on something semi-professional. Ordered an Uber because I couldn’t bare to tell Mabel that after everything, we wouldn’t be working together after all.
Of course, San Francisco was beaming with sun this morning. After a bout of rain and dreary weather for days, the clouds finally parted and opened up into the kind of weather we’re known for. Tourists laughed and pointed, their faces blurring by the car as it continued on its path to the arena.
As I sat in the backseat of the Uber, endlessly grateful that my driver didn’t want to chat, I thought about Mabel.
I couldn’t tell her about HR’s email, because Mabel would have tried to stop the meeting from happening.
She would have spent the entire day looking up laws and regulations, reasons why they couldn’t fire me for being sick.
But, if I’m being honest, there’s something almost…freeing. About the idea of being done with it. Never having to come into the Squids arena again.
If I see Weston, I know I’m going to break down and tell him everything. And that’s the last thing I want to do. Even though I’ve missed him so much the ache has been physical, feeling like it was leaking right down into my bones.
It’s been half a year since I first met him.
Five months of this fake relationship that started to feel more and more real every day.
It may not be that long, but I know him.
I know that if I tell him the truth, he’s going to give up everything he’s ever cared about to do the “right” thing, even though it’s not what he wants.
The arena is, thankfully, quiet. There’s an away game today, and the guys left last night, their flight touching down with enough time for the team to get acclimated before the game. It means the only people in the Squids complex today are the staff.
Maybe I imagine it, but it feels like the heavy weight of several pairs of eyes follow me down the hallway as I make my way to the HR office. I shy away from every other woman who looks at me, feeling like they might sense the truth about my condition through some sort of feminine telepathy.
“Thank you so much for coming in,” a tall blond woman says, meeting me at the desk the moment I arrive. She’s dressed in an impeccable pantsuit, her hair perfectly straight, and I realize I’m under dressed in my Squids polo. “I’m Quinn Smith, head of HR.”
There’s no waiting, even though I’m fifteen minutes early, and she leads me to an office in the back straightaway, clearing her throat and gesturing for me to take a seat.
There are three other HR people here. She introduces them to me, and I immediately forget their names. Tamra from PR stands at the end of the row, and she offers me a small, thin smile when I meet her eyes.
I’m definitely getting fired.
You don’t have to be a genius to know that four HR professionals at a single meeting is not a good sign. I steel myself, getting ready to look at the employee handbook, for Quinn to gently remind me that attendance is very important here.
“Did you have a good drive over? Was traffic bad? I heard the rain was slowing things down.”
She makes small talk as she thumbs through her papers, and I want to rip my hair out, but I manage to stay calm. Tell her that the traffic was fine, that I had good holidays—which only makes me think about Weston—and we discuss the construction on the other side of the arena.
Finally, with a small sigh, she glances down at the papers in front of her and up at me, her expression turning more serious.
“Ms. Montgomery,” Quinn says, “I’m sure you probably have some idea of why we asked you here today.”
“…it’s to do with my attendance,” I say, clearing my throat and shifting in my chair. “And I know that it’s been extensive, but I’ve followed all the protocol for prolonged illness—”
“No, no,” Quinn says, waving her hand, frowning down at the paperwork in front of her. “You’re right—you’ve done everything right. We have your doctor’s note here. We’re not going to fire you, Elsie.”
“Oh,” I let out a breath, deflatingt, but as quickly as the relief comes, it’s gone. Why bring me in if they’re not planning on firing me. “So…what’s going on?”
“Well,” Quinn clears her throat and shifts in her seat, her eyes darting to the ceiling for a moment before landing on me. “It’s come to our attention that Mr. Wolfe’s relationship with you might not be…fully appropriate.”
“What?” the word snaps out of me too fast. I realize instantly that it makes me look guilty—or makes Weston look guilty?—and I real in my reaction, sitting up taller, shaking my head, trying to look older than I feel in this moment. “No, we came to you, documented everything—”
“Elsie,” Quinn’s voice is gentle as she reaches across the table laying her hand palm-down.
Her nails are perfectly manicured. “I’m sure you realize our interest in protecting this team, and making sure absolutely nothing untoward was going on.
After what happened with Coach Morton, we can’t take any chances. You understand that, right?”
I swallow, nod. “I do.”
“Well, some additional information about the nature of your relationship with him has come to our attention,” Quinn says, and I can’t read into her expression, can’t figure out what that additional information might be.
“So, I need you to answer this question for me completely honestly—has Weston Wolfe been taking advantage of you?”
My heart pounds so loudly in my chest that I can’t hear myself think.
I wish Weston was here right now, or even Hattie or Mabel, so I wouldn’t be staring these people down on my own.
At what point will I really start to feel like an adult?
Nearly twenty-six, and I need someone here with me. I almost wish I had a lawyer present.
After everything that happened with Morton, and everything that’s continued to happen, with him dating girls young enough to be his granddaughter, the Squids are worried about image.
Worried that this thing might blow up even bigger than that.
And it makes sense—not only are people going to be weird about the age gap thing, but the people who supported us before are probably going to feel betrayed. Like the Squids are putting on a show.
Realistically, they were. They asked us to go along with this, to make those public appearances. When originally, my only goal was to make sure Karlee didn’t think Weston was taking advantage of me. This entire thing came from a single moment, the possibility that he could be fired.
What was the point of going through all this, if he ends up losing his job anyway?
Quinn Smith was hired to replace the HR director before her, who fumbled the situation with Morton and those interns. Tamra sits at the end of the table, her gaze solidifying what I know to be true.
This isn’t just about protecting the organization, it’s about protecting its reputation. They can’t survive another allegation against a head coach.
From the look on Quinn’s face, I’m reading that no matter what I say, or how I answer this question, they’re going to play it safe anyway. They’re going to fire Weston. I know it in my bones.
“Okay,” I say, letting out a breath, nodding, looking at each of them. “I’ll talk to you, but I’m going to need something from HR, first.”
They all lean forward, ready to hear what I have to say.
And I know what I have to do.