Page 9 of Sexting the Coach (Pucking Daddies #6)

Elsie

“Well, what’s your favorite color?” Weston asks, settling into the chair across from me and glancing around the coffee shop we’re in, like he’s expecting someone to ask for his autograph at any moment.

“Pink,” I say, distractedly, because there’s a lot going on in this place.

Behind the counter, there’s the hiss of steaming milk, the chugging of a blender, people giving and taking orders. It smells like espresso and bacon, and my stomach growls despite the fact that I had a smoothie before leaving this morning.

The Squids are gearing up for their first regular season game, and though we’re not even into October yet, this cafe is decorated with bats and pumpkins. A bulldog sits right outside the window, staring at me, and I can’t stop looking down at him.

“Pink—of course,” Weston mutters, laughing to himself and taking a sip of his coffee, which is, of course, black.

“At least it’s a real color.”

“What questions are on your list?” he asks, waving his hand toward it but looking out at the patio. The bulldog is staring at him, now.

“What’s the weirdest thing you’ve done in public?”

“Nothing,” he says, keeping a blank face.

“Really, you’ve never done anything weird in public?”

“No. What about you?”

I pause, chewing on my lip for a second, trying to think of something that’s weird and charming, not just weird. “I played a tree in a school play.”

“That is so rehearsed.”

“No, actually, I didn’t have any lines.”

Weston rolls his eyes, reaching over and taking the paper, “Let’s see—what’s the strangest text you’ve ever received?” His eyes light up with laughter, and my face flushes. “Oh, that’s easy, you see, a few weeks ago—”

“Next,” I chirp, reaching over and taking the paper back from him, “What is the sweetest thing someone has done for you?”

“…nothing.”

“Nothing? Nobody has ever done something sweet for you in your life?”

“My ex-wife was not exactly cuddly,” he says, leaning back in his chair and propping his ankle up on the opposite knee, but under the joking tone there’s something almost like hurt.

Weston Wolfe has never had someone do something sweet for him. I file that away.

“I had this painting my brother made for me when we were kids,” I say, clearing my throat and staring at the paper, to keep from looking up at the man sitting across from me. “It was damaged when we moved. Hattie and Mabel paid to have it repaired.”

“Hattie and Mabel, your roommates.”

“Hattie and Mabel, my roommates and best friends,” I amend, opening my mouth to ask him about his best friends, but he speaks first.

“Right. What’s the next question?”

I glance down at the list. “What would be the title of your autobiography if you wrote it today?”

“Ha,” he says, shaking his head. “How to Lose the Stanley Cup.”

Right after it comes out of his mouth, his face seems to rearrange into something a little harder, like he realizes that was a vulnerable thing to say.

I already know exactly what he’s talking about—two years ago, before he became an assistant coach for the Squids, he was playing.

That season, his team made it all the way through the play-offs, and to the last game of the Stanley Cup, but didn’t win.

Those are the videos I watched. In which I could tell he was favoring his hip, trying to keep the weight off it.

“Mine would be, August Montgomery Has a Daughter,” I say, clearing my throat, trying to smile. I was trying to come up with something funny, but I’ve accidentally done the same thing as Weston—offering up an answer that’s just a little too vulnerable.

“What, most people don’t know that?” Weston fiddles with a packet of sugar—I’ve noticed he’s always looking for something to do with his hands.

“No—I mean, most of them were pretty interested in his son.”

Why did I say that?

The last thing I want is for Weston’s attention to be drawn to my brother. For him to start asking questions about Drew. Even thinking his name makes me feel hot, sweat accumulating on my hair line.

Weston leans forward, raising an eyebrow, but before he can say anything or ask me about that, I look down at the list and ask the next question.

“Do you believe in having one best friend?” I blurt.

“Sure,” he shrugs the way he does, with just the one shoulder. “I mean—you should probably pick your partner as your best friend, right?”

“I don’t know,” I joke, desperate to get away from the serious questions. I glance down at the bulldog, who’s now laying on his stomach, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. “I guess that’s what a good boyfriend would do.”

“Are you claustrophobic?”

“No.”

“Do you have any implants?”

“Also, no—I filled all this in on that stupid questionnaire. What’s the point in asking me again?”

Weston is sitting in the PT room with me. Outside the windows, the San Francisco sky is dark, a few palm trees rustling in the wind. I have the window cracked, despite the fact that it’s been getting a little chillier at night, and the cool breeze floats in, carrying with it the scent of the ocean.

I have a couple of lights on in here, but it’s dimmer than it is during the day, so the lights from various machines blink, red and soft, from across the room.

Weston has seemed very paranoid about anyone finding out he’s hurt, and keeping the lights low felt like another way to keep the whole thing quiet.

“The point is to make sure we’re on the same page,” I say, pointing to his hat. “You have to take that off.”

He lifts a hand to it, scowling at me, “What? Why?”

“Because in order to give you the MRI, I need you to remove all accessories. That’s what the basket is for. Where you put your watch.”

“I get it because the watch is metal,” he counters, his hand still on the hat. “But this is just a hat. It’s not an accessory. It’s part of the outfit.”

“You have to take it off, Weston,” I sigh and roll my eyes, “I don’t make the MRI rules.”

He grits his teeth, but removes the hat, running his hand through his hair once before handing the hat to me. I try not to look, but I can’t help it—with his reaction, I was half thinking he might be balding under it. But he’s got a head full of hair.

“Lay back,” I say, and I’m able to go through the motions with him on the table, setting up a cushions to make sure he’s comfortable, and telling him to stay completely still so I can get a good image.

I hand him the little emergency switch, “Squeeze this if something is wrong and you need to me to come get you out.”

“Can I squeeze it now?”

I eye him again, “Are you sure you’re not claustrophobic?”

“I’m sure.”

Ten minutes later, I’m sitting in the imaging room, running the sequences, and watching as Weston’s legs and hips light up for me on the screen. I run through all the typical stuff—measuring angles, checking on ligaments, until I get, finally, to his left hip.

“So?” Weston asks when I return to the MRI machine and pull him out, removing the cushions and watching as he sits up, reaching first for his hat and pulling it over his hair again.

During clinicals, and in my summer job, I watched a lot of physical therapists have to give bad news to patients.

I try to remember what we learned about bed side manner, and I try not to think too hard about the fact that the man sitting in front of me was out on the ice, skating even though he was in severe pain.

“It’s cartilage deterioration in your hip joint,” I say, trying to keep my face neutral, my voice as even as possible.

I’m just delivering the information, not trying to temper it to his expectations.

Be empathetic, but not condescending. It can be hard to strike the right balance, and even more so when his gaze is heavy on me, those blue eyes shining darker than normal.

Weston’s face is just as carefully schooled as mine. “How bad is it?”

“It’s…not good,” I admit, letting out a breath and busying myself with unplugging cords, putting the machine elements away.

“But it’s treatable. You need to ease up on skating when you don’t have to—no more after-practice sessions.

Use a heat pad when you’re at home. I can work with you to improve strength around your hip, create more support for the joint.

There are a lot of therapies we can look into, as well—hyaluronic acid, platelet-rich plasma injections. ”

“Great.” Weston rolls his neck, clears his throat, jumps up from the MRI table so fast he nearly collides with me, pushing through the door and into the main PT room.

I follow behind him as he moves to the little basket outside the door to collect his things. I can feel his frustration radiating out and off of him like physical vibrations.

At least it’s not devastation. At least Weston was, somewhat, prepared for what was coming.

Unlike Drew.

I swallow hard as I put things away, wipe down the machine, trying desperately not to think about that day. About the sound of his scream. About the note of despair in my dad’s voice when he came home from the hospital and announced that it was the worst possible thing.

“Torn ACL,” Dad said, in the way someone else might say, terminal cancer. “Surgery next week.”

Drew’s hockey career was over before it ever got the chance to start. And it was entirely my fault. If I had been more careful, more considerate, he would be in the NHL today.

“What are you thinking about?”

I startle, nearly dropping the cord in my hand, looking up to find Weston staring at me, his brow furrowed, head tilted. He’s got his jacket on again, his watch strapped around his wrist, and instead of looking stricken from the information about his hip, he looks curious, his gaze settled on me.

“Nothing,” I try, and when it comes out garbled, I clear my throat and try again, “Nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing,” he quips, stepping closer to me, “It looks like you’re thinking about the day the queen died.”

“Oh, are you a fan of the royal family?”

“Elsie,” he presses, frowning when he gets closer to me. I force my eyes to stay on his, instead of taking in that damn backwards hat. “You know everything doesn’t have to be sunshine and rainbows all the time, right?”

“I know,” I hang a cord on the outside of the machine, realize there’s nothing more to do for clean up and turn back to him, tucking my hands into the pockets of my scrubs because I have nothing else to do with them.

“It’s worth it to stay positive, though, because the treatments for your hip have been pretty successful in other patients. The plasma therapy specifically—”

He steps closer to me again, and when I step back, I bump into the wall, my heart leaping into my throat as he stares at me. It feels like I have nowhere to hide.

“I’m not talking about me.” His voice is low enough that I can practically feel the vibration of it. “I’m talking about you. About whatever was going through your head just now.”

“I told you, it’s nothing—”

“You’re lying to me, Elsie.”

Just like last time, outside that cabin, Weston’s chest is against mine and I’m not quite sure how we crossed the distance, how this happened again. I feel caught in his tractor beam, suspended in the moment, chin tipped up, looking at him as he stares down at me.

And despite everything—him being pushy and cagey all at once—the only thing I can think is kiss me.

It’s those same, unbanished thoughts. They’ve been circling through my head since the moment I walked in on him in his room, and now they’ve popped up again, have me arching my back into him when he comes closer, have my eyes dropping down to his lips.

They have me mentally chanting, again and again, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, like I’m casting an ancient spell. Like thinking it might be enough to wish it into existence, if only I repeat it enough.

“Elsie,” Weston whispers, and I swear he’s close enough that his lips brush against mine with the word. What’s the worst that can happen? Everyone at work already thinks we’re really dating.

If anything, this is just going the distance to prove that we are. It’s character acting.

I could find any reason to justify this happening. That’s how bad I want it.

Then, just as quickly as it came, Weston’s warmth is gone, his chest no longer brushing mine.

“Wolfe?” the door to the PT room swings open, and Weston moves, standing protectively in front of me and facing the intruder. At first, I think it’s going to be someone from security, but it’s not—it’s one of the assistant coaches.

“Fincher,” Weston says coolly, his hand resting on my hip and setting the entire area on fire. As though he knows how it’s affecting me, he slides that hand around the small of my back, and my core tightens considerably, flushing with warmth.

Fucking hell—Weston Wolfe is making me feel like a teenager again. Like I have no control over these impulses.

“What are you doing in the PT room?” Fincher asks, his gaze traveling up and down Weston in a seeking way, and I silently send a thank you to the universe that he didn’t come slamming in here while Weston was still getting put together after the MRI. That would have been far too obvious.

“I am obviously here to see my girlfriend,” Weston says, and I can hear the frown in his voice without seeing his face. “What are you doing here this late?”

Fincher licks his teeth, “Watching film.”

“Well, head home,” Weston says, his voice balanced somewhere between authority and levity. “Wouldn’t want you getting burnt out, would we?”

Fincher stares at him for a moment longer, then turns and walks out the room without another word.

I want to ask Weston about it, about what the hell is going on between the two of them. Why he doesn’t want Fincher to know about his injury, and why Fincher cares so much in the first place.

But today has already been a lot, and Weston is clearly ready to go.

“Come on,” he says, flatly, after enough time that Fincher is out of the way. “I’ll walk you to your car.”