Page 7 of Sexting the Coach (Pucking Daddies #6)

Elsie

The drive back to San Francisco with Mabel is full of questions and exclamations and Hattie on the phone through the car’s stereo, practically having a meltdown at all the reasons why this is a terrible idea.

“It’s my only choice,” I say, crossing my arms in the passenger seat, glancing over at Mabel, whose fingers are tight on the wheel when we go over the Golden Gate Bridge. “I just…panicked and said all that to Karlee. It’s not like I can take it back without looking like a massive liar.”

“It is a lie, though!” Hattie says.

“You know, for being so graceful, you’re incredibly clumsy,” Mabel says, sparing me only a quick glance before returning her gaze to the road. “Being a little less accident-prone would solve a lot of your problems.”

“Ha, ha.”

When we get home, Mabel and I lug our things through the lobby, telling the doorman there’s no need for him to help. The elevator catches like it always does about halfway between our floor and the next, though luckily, this time it’s only about a minute before it jerks and finishes its ascent.

Hattie greets us at the door, then there’s more of Hattie and Mabel grilling me on my bad decisions, then we spend the rest of the weekend watching reality TV.

Mabel tries to make a recipe she found on TikTok, and Hattie insists we spend at least an hour cleaning the apartment, which Mabel and I resist, only to be pretty pleased with the ambiance when we have dust-free surfaces and a fall leaves candle flickering happily on the table.

Monday morning, I open up an empty text thread with Weston—I deleted the sext out of embarrassment—and send yet another to him.

Elsie: Still on for the HR meeting this morning?

I half expect him to tell me that he changed his mind about this entire thing, that he actually already told them the truth and that we’ve both been fired.

Instead, he texts me back seconds later.

Weston: See you in ten.

And I do. When I walk up to the HR office, Weston is waiting outside for me, leaning against the wall, looking like he’s the cool rebel boy in school. He’s wearing his Squids jacket and a pair of ass-hugging joggers, and I have to work hard not to stare at him.

When he sees me, he straightens up, tucking his phone into his pocket right away. It takes me back for a second—when was the last time someone put their phone away, rather than finishing their video or text first?

Something warms in my chest. It’s kind of a turn on.

No—I chastise myself. I am not attracted to him. I’m not doing this again. Last time I let these thoughts run rampant, I ended sending the text that started all this. I’m going to keep this all under lock, stomp it down until it fizzles out completely.

“Hey, babe,” he says, and I swear to god it literally wipes my brain clean for a moment, wondering if those words actually came out of his mouth.

I find myself staring at his lips, not sure what to say, until I get close enough that he can reach out and run his hand over my arm. “You ready for this?”

It’s at this moment that I see the HR receptionist through the glass doors, openly watching us. There are papers spread out on the desk, manila folders. Light comes in through the small window behind him.

I do my best to give Weston a wide-open, I’m so in love with you kind of smile. This time, he’s the one blinking back at me, a little bit of pink glowing on his cheeks.

“Yep!” I say, then I ruin the effect by patting his arm like he’s my grandmother or something. “Let’s get this over with so we can get back to work.”

Five minutes later, Weston and I are sitting side by side in a small office, the HR guy staring at us with a slightly bored look. Sighing, he reaches into his desk and pulls out several bundles of papers, adds them to the ones on the desk, and pushes them over to us.

“I’ll need you to each fill out these forms,” he says. “Standard stuff. Then, we’ll go through some of the questions and expectations we have for workplace relationships.”

“Alright,” I say, knowing I sound a little too chipper, but I think I used up all my good acting on Karlee at the camp a few nights ago.

Since then, I’ve done my best to ignore her, turning down her offer to grab coffee on Sunday because I wasn’t sure I could keep pulling off the lie about dating Weston if we were alone.

Now, I feel confident until I look down and see the form I have has me filling out information for both me and Weston.

I write down his first and last name confidently, then when I realize it’s asking for the middle name, I blanch, deciding I’ll just skip to the next section.

But the next section is his address, then his phone number.

I got it from the staff directory, but it’s not like I know his number from the top of my head.

As I make my way through the form, I blink at box after box that I don’t have the answers to.

When I try to surreptitiously glance over at Weston, his brow is furrowed, and I realize he’s having exactly the same problem as me.

“Is there an issue?” the HR guy asks, leaning up over the desk to look at our forms, frowning when he sees we’ve only filled out our own information.

“We’re still pretty new, you know,” Weston grumbles, clearing his throat and setting his clipboard up on the desk, crossing his arms. He’s wearing a jacket—it’s not like there’s even any bare skin on display.

So why are my eyes straining to dart over to him, take in the stretch over his chest? “So, I don’t know some of this stuff.”

“You don’t know her middle name?” the guys asks, glancing at me like Jesus Christ, this guy? But then he seems to realize I don’t know Weston’s, either.

“Ri-ight,” he says, clearing his throat and sitting back in his seat. “This kind of paperwork is really for serious relationships, not, like, a hook-up, or, uh, informal kind of situation—”

Oh my god, my face is on fire.

If Mabel and Hattie were here, they’d be falling apart with laughter—I am not a hook-up kind of girl.

I’ll fall in love with anything that looks at me nicely, which was part of the problem with Jonathan.

Even through the on and offs of our relationship, I couldn’t really bring myself to date other people.

I couldn’t do casual if my life depended on it.

And I never imagined myself having this kind of conversation with human resources at work. Especially not in front of Weston Wolfe, of all people.

“We’re serious,” Weston says, his voice getting that hard line to it that I’ve noticed from when he’s coaching.

I ignore the way it sparks a note of adrenaline in me, my heart beating just a little bit faster.

It’s all a performance. “We’re just—new.

The general manager is the one who told us to meet with you, but if you want me to tell her she’s wrong—”

The HR guy sits up in his seat fast, shaking his head, blinking fast, “No, no, that’s alright. Why don’t the two of you just work together on the forms so we can get this done. And you can tell Karlee everything is taken care of.”

“Right,” Weston says, nodding, and when I glance over at him, he winks at me. Apparently, Karlee’s scariness can be used to our advantage. And Weston knew that—it makes me think of his strategic coaching with the team. Knowing what to do to get what he wants.

There’s something like—what? Pride? His competence—and the fact that the HR guy backed down immediately—is attractive to me.

When we’re finished with the paperwork, we walk out of the HR office and down the hall together, each quiet, both of us thinking, our shoes tapping the floor rhythmically.

“We’re going to need to sort that out,” I say, jerking my thumb over my shoulder toward the offices. Weston jumps a little, like he forgot I was here, walking next to him.

“Isn’t that what we just did?”

“No, I mean, like, we’re going to have to know stuff about each other if we want to pull this off. You know what I mean?”

“What, you have some deep dark secrets you’re gearing up to share with me?’

Unbidden, the memory of that day on the ice comes screaming into my mind. Snowflakes drifting down. All the blood.

I slam against the panic in my chest and head, pushing it back down into its box where it belongs, getting as loud as I can in my mind to keep it from taking over. When I surface a moment later, Weston is giving me a strange look.

“No,” I say, a little too quickly, knowing I’m breathing hard. “But I think we’re going to need to know surface level stuff about each other if people are going to believe we’re actually dating. Like, I don’t even know your favorite color.”

“Black.”

“Black isn’t a color—”

He holds up a hand, narrows his eyes at me, “How did I know you were going to say that? Fine, then this color.”

Weston points to the nearly-black, bluish ink color on his hoodie, the team color for the Squids. I barely keep myself from laughing.

“Don’t you think that’s kind of a cliche favorite color?”

“Don’t you think asking about someone’s favorite color is kind of cliche?”

“No, it’s fundamental.”

“It’s like asking about someone’s favorite food. Nobody really—”

“Mac and cheese,” I answer, automatically and without second thought. “That’s my favorite food.”

He raises an eyebrow, “Mac and cheese?”

“Yes, and I won’t be defending it.”

“Probably because you can’t.”

I open my mouth, then shut it again, because I just said that I would not be defending my favorite food.

Instead, I do it in my head—it’s versatile.

A food loved by kids and adults alike. It can be classic, or fancy.

It’s a comfort food. It’s a staple. It’s a blank canvas onto which you can paint any flavor you want, but the traditional ones always end up being the best.

“I can see the little gears turning in your head,” Weston says, and I realize that without even meaning to, we’ve walked to the PT offices and treatment center, Weston stopping just in front of the threshold like a vampire who needs invited in.

“I think we need to plan a time to get together and go over the basics,” I whisper, leaning in close to him when a couple others from the PT team walk around us to enter the room. “And, I think you should come in and let me do an MRI on you.”

The first thing he doesn’t bat an eye at, but the second has him stepping backward from me like he did outside the dining hall—like I’m nuclear, and he’s desperately trying not to get radiation poisoning.

He’s firmly in the hallway, putting space between himself at the PT treatment center.

“No,” he says, emphatically, his thick brows lowering down over his eyes, the blue of his irises seeming a little darker, with the emotion behind them. “There is absolutely no reason for that. No need to waste team resources.”

“It would not be a waste of team resources,” I counter. “And the reason is that you’re hurt—”

He claps a hand over my mouth and practically drags me to the other side of the hallway, and my heart and body react accordingly to his, making my chest tight and my skin flushed. There’s nobody else over here, but Weston looks back and forth before lowering his head toward me.

“You—” he starts, then he pulls his hand back in disgust. “Did you just lick my hand?”

“Yes,” I whisper fiercely, ignoring the flush, ignoring my rapidly beating hard, ignoring the way his eyes on me feel like they could melt me right into the ground.

“I did. You can’t just ignore the fact that you have some sort of injury, Weston.

And I’m willing to bet that it’s been bothering you for a lot longer than you’re willing to let on. ”

“Drop it, Montgomery,” he orders in his coach voice, and though it makes something tighten between my legs, I’m not going to give in. He may be the head coach of the Squids, but he’s not my boss.

“You can’t make me,” I counter, rising up on my tip toes and staring into his eyes. “Keep ignoring that thing, and you’re just going to make it worse. Let me do an MRI. Let me figure out what’s wrong, and we can come up with a treatment plan together.”

“Why does this matter so much to you?” he asks, his eyes narrowing, and suddenly I’m on the defensive, shifting my gaze away from his. Can he tell? That he’s found the question to make me drop back on my heels?

I don’t want him to look at me too closely, because he might see the truth there. That I can’t help the person I want to, so I have to try and help everyone else instead.

It’s the only way I’ll ever come close to making up for what I did.

“I’m a physical therapist,” I say, knowing it comes out just a touch robotic. “And I work for the Squids. It’s my job to keep this team in top shape, and that includes you.”

“I can tell you’re lying, Elsie.”

He’s breathing hard, his chest brushing mine with each inhalation, and I swear to god my nervous system is going to be fried if I have to go through any more moments like this.

This is what prehistoric humans must have felt like when hunted by lions—all systems at the ready, all senses on high alert.

“Just let me help you, Weston. We can find a fix together.”

For a second, something in his face softens, and I think he might actually give in, let me look at his hip, let me figure out how to make him feel better.

But just as quickly as that look appeared, it’s gone, and he’s shaking his head, stepping back from me, and breaking the moment.

“There’s nothing to fix, because nothing is wrong,” he says, putting even more distance between us. Before he turns and walks down the hallway, he says, “See you later. For our date.”

And with that, Wolfe walks away, but I’m still left feeling like I’m a rabbit who just barely skittered away with its life.