Page 8 of Sexting the Coach (Pucking Daddies #6)

Weston

The problem with having a hip injury like this, and being a hockey player, is that skating is all about shifting your weight.

Skating fast, and skating with agility, is all about moving your mass from one side to the other and using that motion to propel you forward. And I used to be one of the best, one of the fastest, until my fucking body betrayed me.

Now, as I try to move the puck between cones, weaving it in and out, every time I shift to the left, pain sears up my right side, a kind of twinge that comes with a sparkler effect of numbness and tingling.

A reminder that this thing is never going to go away, and my only course of action is to ignore it the best I can.

But lately—and after that hard fall during the game of touch football—that is getting more and more difficult.

It’s late, and I’m the only one on the ice. Maybe even the only one still here at the arena. All the players went home a while ago, and even the janitorial staff doesn’t like to hang around that long. Likely, it’s just me and the rare security guard, making his loops through the building.

The last thing I want is an audience as I struggle with what should be the world’s most basic handling drill.

In a way, even with the pain, it’s soothing. Nothing but the smell of the ice, the smell of my blades cutting against it. The sound of my breathing, the soft taps against the puck echoing up into the rafters of the arena.

It’s tranquil, and probably the closest I’ll ever get to meditation.

After half an hour of working drills by myself, I feel a prickle on the back of my neck and look up into the stands, cursing under my breath when I see a familiar head of blond hair, a familiar set of brown eyes focused right on me.

“Fuck,” I mutter, not knowing how long she’s been watching, but knowing it’s probably been long enough for her to see the way I avoid my left side, the way the pain radiates through me. Earlier, I’d done everything I could to try and convince her I was fine, but she still didn’t believe me.

This is the final nail in the coffin.

Quickly, I gather up my cones and the puck, skating to the side gate and sitting down hard, unlacing my skates, and slipping on a pair of sneakers. I need to get out of here before she can make her way down through the stands and come confront me about my skating.

I stand up, turn around to grab my back.

“Weston Wolfe, are you running away from me?”

“Fuck,” I mutter again, when I turn and see Elsie standing in the doorway that leads to the locker room, her arms crossed and a look that’s far too smug for my liking on her face. “I’m heading home, Elsie—and you should, too. It’s late.”

“I’m aware,” she says, not moving when I step closer to her, clearly indicating my desire to walk through the doorway she’s blocking. “But I’m not leaving until you agree to let me treat you.”

“Not happening.”

“Then I guess we’re sleeping here together tonight,” she says, and her face instantly flushes, which makes me grit my teeth at the thought. “That’s not—”

She stops herself, clears her throat. Jerkily running a hand through her hair, she seems to gather herself, her next words coming out more measured and careful.

“You’re hurt, Weston. And I know you think you’re doing what’s right for the team by keeping it a secret, but I promise you that eventually, that hip is going to give out under your weight. ”

The sound of that turns my blood cold, makes my mouth taste like battery acid. It’s something I haven’t allowed myself to think about—the moment it becomes more than pain. The moment that I wouldn’t be able to ignore it anymore, when it might shift from an inconvenience to an impossibility.

I haven’t said a thing, but it’s like Elsie can tell I’m caving. The idea of my hip giving out on me is chilling. It could happen anywhere—at a game, during practice—and would be much, much worse than people finding out I’m in pain.

It would be a clear-cut reason for Fincher to finally out me as not being good enough for the head coach position.

I’m already worried of what might happen if people found out about the injury—Fincher might claim it’s a distraction, or even try to be a nice guy about it and claim that he’s worried for my health.

Either way, anyone—admin, the other coaches, the players—knowing about my weaknesses is not a good idea.

“I can help you,” Elsie says, a determined look in her eye. “We just need to figure out what’s wrong. Start a treatment plan before it can get any worse.”

For a second, I look up to the rafters, heart thudding heavily in my chest, wishing I could go back in time and undo whatever happened that made my hip fucked in the first place.

“Fine,” I finally say, lowering my chin and finding her gaze again.

There’s a tiny sense of victory there, but a different emotion is much more potent.

Something closer to relief. “But nobody can find out about it. We do it only in the off-hours. You don’t keep any files here on me, and we use a fake name.

Nobody can find out. Nobody in admin, none of the players, and especially Fincher. Is that clear?”

She does a mock salute, that easy smile already back on her face, the flush dying down to a muted pink. I resist the urge to reach out and brush my thumb over it. It’s bad enough that every time she puts her hands in her hair, I want to follow their path with my own.

“Yes, sir,” she says, dropping her voice an octave to play soldier. “You have my word and my discretion.”

“Great,” I mutter, stepping past her now that she’s finally freed up the doorway. “Now, come on. I’m walking you to your car.”

“Oh, you don’t—”

“Elsie,” I say, turning back and fixing her with a look, ignoring the twist in my stomach at the words. “It’s what a good boyfriend would do.”

“Oh, hey—you can take my seat.”

I blink at the guy standing in front of me—one of the game day assistants who, for some reason, looks like he might shit his pants.

I’m standing in the aisle of the team plane, my duffel bag held in front of me, just trying to get to my normal spot sitting with the other coaches. We usually use this time to go over film, talk strategy, or just nap if we know we have stuff locked down.

“No, man, that’s alright—” I start, but it’s when he moves from his aisle that I realize why he’s moving so quickly.

Elsie stares up at me from the window seat, her eyes widening when she sees me. She’s wearing a soft pink sweat set, the sleeves of her sweatshirt puffy, her hair back in two braids, the small white stick of a sucker poking out the corner of her mouth.

Last night I walked her to the car, still grappling with my decision to let her treat my hip. And this morning, when I woke up, she as the first thing I thought about.

The assistant has already disappeared into the back of the plane, and I’m holding up the line, so I turn, dropping into the seat next to her, tucking my duffel under the seat in front of me and glancing up at her.

“Is it okay if I sit here?” I ask, and her eyes sparkle as she looks at me, raising a single eyebrow in a move I recognize as a parody of my own.

“That’s what a good boyfriend would do,” she whispers.

“Ha.” Why is my heart beating like this? I busy myself unzipping my jacket and settling back into the seat, then look over at her when it feels like I have a little better control over my body. “Maybe we should go through some of those questions right now.”

“Questions?” she asks, moving the sucker from one side to the other.

“Yeah—favorite colors, or whatever.”

She nods slowly, then surprises me by reaching up and touching the brim of my ball cap. I feel the little tug in the back of my head, and I resist the urge to reach up and take her hand in my own, folding our fingers together.

Touching her is a bad idea.

“Okay, so my first question is about this,” she says, dropping her hand from my hat.

“About my hat?”

“Yeah, like, why are you always wearing one?”

I swallow, glancing away from her. One question in, and already it’s one I don’t want to answer.

“Next,” I mutter, and she laughs, sitting back in her seat.

“Next?”

“Yeah, next question.”

“Okay, fine—why did you get a divorce from Leda Temple?”

“Fuck, are you like, pulling these questions from a how-to torture book?” I laugh and rub my hand over my eyes, then let my head loll over to her. “How about I start with a question for you?”

She shifts eagerly in her seat like a puppy gearing up to catch a treat from the air. In her eyes shines a determination, likely to show me that she’s more game to answer these questions than I am. “Fine. Works for me.”

“Why physical therapy?”

“…what?”

“I mean, I’m assuming you grew up with a lot of resources,” I say, shrugging one shoulder. “And a lot of influence. You could have done hockey yourself or could have done anything. Why PT, and why here, in the NHL?”

Just like I thought it would, it strikes a chord, and she looks away from me, swallowing. The plane starts it taxi to the runway, but it’s like Elsie doesn’t even notice.

“It’s just always been interesting to me,” she says.

“In high school, I worked in an after-school program, and there was this little girl who had been in a car accident. I saw how PT helped her get back her ability to walk. Then, later, once I was in school, I worked in a pediatrics specialty practice for some of my clinicals, and I really liked it.”

“So, you’re planning to have kids?”

“Uh,” she laughs, shrugging, “I mean, yeah, eventually.”

“Just seems like you enjoy working with them.”

“I think I’d make a good mom,” she says, and it strikes me as one of the most honest things she’s said. Then, tilting her head at me, she says, “Why didn’t you and Leda have kids?”

The answer is out of my mouth before I have a chance to think about it. It’s automatic, “Didn’t want them.”

Her eyes widen, like the concept of not wanting kids is foreign to her. “Like, ever?”

My eyes drop to my lap, and I fiddle with the seatbelt’s strap.

Leda was the one who didn’t want kids—her focus was always her career, and she assumed I was the same.

When the topic came up, she would line up the reasons why kids didn’t make any sense—they’re expensive, time-consuming.

If we wanted to hold a baby, we could always visit someone else’s, nieces, or nephews.

“Nah,” I finally answer. It’s easier to stick this answer. Admitting that I would have wanted kids at this point is only going to make her feel sorry for me, and that’s not what I need. “Can we move away from these questions?”

“Sure,” she says, pulling out what looks like some sort of print-out, scanning over it. “Okay—what’s your love language?”

“Love language?” I can feel my brow wrinkling. “Uh, English?”

She sighs, leaning back into her seat and covering her face with her hands. Through her fingers, voice muffled, she says, “This is going to be harder than I thought.”

It’s one of the first things we’ve agreed on.