Page 35 of Sexting the Coach (Pucking Daddies #6)

Weston

“What the hell are you doing?”

“You have eyes, Meyers. Figure it out.”

“That’s no way to talk to your boss.”

I look up from the box that I’m currently filling with my hockey books, raising an eyebrow in Karlee Meyer’s direction.

My office is littered with half-packed boxes, the result of an hour of work.

Sunlight streams in through the window. It’s chilly and muggy—San Francisco’s trademark winter—but I have the window open, anyway.

It’s like my anger has increased my body temperature and keeping it freezing is the only way I don’t get worked up all over again.

I got here before the sun came up after a long, sleepless night.

Back when I was going through my divorce with Leda, I’d met with a counselor who did a lot of comforting through facts. That many people perceive break-ups similarly to the loss of a loved one, because the process really is grief.

I think she assumed I needed the validation for my feelings. That the reason I was so numb in her office was because I was holding back, rather than the truth that I’d fallen out of love with Leda long before the divorce came.

But her words came back to me last night, when my entire body was throbbing with unimaginable pain. I couldn’t breath, couldn’t handle the anger coiling up inside me, tight and hot, like a turnkey on a wind-up toy.

It was grief. The first day after the loss of Elsie, and I knew what I should have been feeling all those years ago, when going through the divorce. I should have been mourning Leda, and that fact that I didn’t really justified the separation after all.

This morning, when the first rays of light shone through my windows, I realized that in my big, turn-in-the-badge moment yesterday I hadn’t taken time to get my things. Luckily, the security guard recognized me and let me in without question.

The Squids hadn’t taken me off the staff registry. Just like they said they wouldn’t. Whatever—they can keep me on the list, but that’s not going to stop me from quitting this stupid, fucking job.

I don’t know what made me think I’d make a good coach in the first place. It’s not even like I was a decent player, let alone that I could lead all these guys. Set a good example.

My marriage fell apart, my family is practically non-existent, and I fell in love with a girl half my fucking age the first chance I got. Sent her running the first time I dared to get close, then followed after her and tried to get her again, only for her to turn me down a second time.

Fucking embarrassing.

“Not my boss anymore, Meyer,” I say, knowing my voice is impossibly bitter. “Or are you not familiar with the word resignation?”

“You can’t resign,” Karlee says, crossing her arms and staring me down. The look of a woman who’s used to getting what she wants with a strong word. Well, too bad. “It’s the middle of the season. The team is headed to the Stanley Cup, because of you. They need you.”

“They’ll be just fine. They can have Fincher.

” Fincher. I can’t even think his name without fury rising up inside me so potent that I could choke on it.

He’s the one who took that video—I know he was.

Turning away from her, I reach for a little trophy—MVP something or other—to tuck it into the box, too.

“I only barely got the job over him, anyway.”

Karlee snorts, and when I glance up at her, she’s shaking her head and looking at me with a mix of disgust and pity. “You wanna talk frank, Wolfe? Then let’s talk about it, even though it’s not professional and I’m really not supposed to be discussing it with you.”

I turn back to her, raising an eyebrow in her direction. She takes the challenge, forging ahead, “We picked you. The vote was unanimous, and Fincher was never even a consideration. In fact, we’re just waiting for his two-year contract to be up at the end of the season so we can let him go.”

I blink at her, mind whirring with this new information. All this time, I assumed Fincher just needed the slightest advantage over me—for example, being in good health to my injury—to come out ahead. Now, to hear that it wasn’t even a question, is rearranging my world view.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Well, maybe we thought it was obvious. Or maybe we thought you’d be able to deal with Fincher. Maybe we didn’t realize how much of an asshole he was going to turn out to be.”

“He took that video.”

“I know.”

“So, what?” I ask. “Nothing happens to him?”

“Do you have any proof?” Karlee asks, even though she already knows the answer to that. If I had proof, I would have turned it over to the Squids a long time ago, ready for them to fire his ass.

It’s not like it’s against the rules for him to record in the arena, or even for him to be here after hours.

But the administration isn’t going to be happy that he put his private need for revenge over upholding the team’s public image.

I know for a fact that Tamra and the others in PR have been here late since the day it happened, trying to do damage control.

“No,” I admit.

“That’s too bad.”

“Wait—” I stare at her, trying to figure out what stands out about this to me. The next time I saw Karlee, I thought she might be bidding me good riddance. Glad that I was gone, especially since I know she doesn’t like me and Elsie being together. “You’re pissed off at him, too?”

“Not going to lie,” Karlee says, sighing and leaning against the wall, her arms still crossed. “I’m not thrilled about the two of you being together. I want what’s best for her, and I’m still not convinced someone twice her age—”

“—I’m not twice her age—”

“—is the right one. But I’m also capable of understanding that taking that video and posting it was shady on several levels. First, a guy who really cared about the Squids and the success of the team wouldn’t have done it. And second, I’m fucking pissed that he did that to Elsie.”

“But you’re not pissed that she was fired?” This comes out a little louder than I mean for it to, but I still can’t handle the look on her face in her apartment. The way she had been crying non-stop. No doubt from HR calling her in and making it clear they considered her expendable.

It’s somewhat obvious. Head coach or PT hire? Loraine would be picking only one PT hire from this year to stay on permanently, anyway. It only made sense to fire Elsie.

But I still couldn’t stomach it. Couldn’t look at the Squids logo without the sense that this team had betrayed her, after everything she poured into it.

And I also didn’t want to stomach the idea of working without her, dealing with the absence of the woman I’d become to accustomed to seeing around.

“Fired?” Karlee repeats, her brow creasing. “The hell are you talking about?”

I roll my eyes at her. I don’t have time for this bullshit. “They fired her. When it came out that this whole thing was fake from that video, they cut her instantly. Forget the fact that I should have been the obvious cut. I’m older than her, if anyone was fucking up—”

“I agree with that,” Karlee says, coolly. “But Elsie wasn’t fired. She quit.”

Time seems to go still as Karlee continues studying me, finally uncrossing her arms. Like this has gone from being a face-off to being a real conversation.

“She quit to protect you,” Karlee says, her voice softening. “Because she didn’t want you to lose your dream, Wolfe.”

Once again, everything is rearranging. First, the Squids chose me. They’re letting Fincher go. This entire thing hasn’t been some sort of test, and all this work I’ve been doing to keep my injury under wraps has been a waste.

I think about every late night with Elsie, the insistence to use a fake name. The shame around not having a perfect body at nearly forty-six years old.

They didn’t fire her. She quit this job for me. This job that she fought for, that she told me was her dream. Elsie gave it up to protect me.

There’s still something that she’s not telling me. More that needs to be worked out.

“And she told you that?” I ask, finally returning my gaze to Karlee, who is watching me like I’m an interesting specimen for her to study.

Karlee sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose and shaking her head. “She didn’t have to.”

Elsie was lying when she said she didn’t want this. She quit this job to protect me, to make sure I would get to keep my dream.

Sacrifice.

Love.

“Fuck,” I mutter, abandoning my packing.

“Fuck, indeed,” Karlee says, watching me as I make for the door. “Fuck, indeed.”