Page 11 of Sexting the Coach
And theconstantpositivity. During meetings, she holds the door, smiling at everyone who comes in. At a sponsor’s event last week, she went around to basically everyone in the room, laughing and kissing cheeks and clinking champagne glasses.
Every time I see her, I can’t help myself from thinking thatnobodyis that happy. She’s just much, much better than the rest of us at hiding her shit.
I’m out of the shower three minutes later, scrubbing the towel over my head and pulling on a pair of shorts, a Squids shirt, running back every reason why doing anything with Montgomery would be a bad idea.
One—she’s the daughter of averyfamous player. That makes us both high-profile in the NHL. It would turn heads if anybody found out something was going on between us.
Two—Elsie is too young for me. I’m not actually sure what her exact age is, but I know it’s off-limits.
Three—public relations has already been up my ass about being better at press conferences, trying to clean up the image problem the last coach caused for us.
By the time I emerge from my room, I find Fincher at the end of the hall, abruptly ending a phone call when he sees me coming.
I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of looking like I give a fuck.
“You’re finally up,” he says, falling into step behind me.
“How long have you been loitering outside my room?” I ask as we walk into the dining hall. He grumbles something from behind me, but I don’t quite catch it, because of course, it’s justmy fucking luck that the moment I walk into the dining hall, I get a clear view of Elsie sitting on the other side.
She has her hair done up in two buns today, a little higher on her head, colorful pastel clips scattered throughout. She looks like she could be a princess, the main character of a show I’m too old to be watching.
And when her eyes meet mine, she quickly pulls her gaze away, saying something to the tall, dark-haired girl next to her, who turns and glares right at me.
“Wolfe?” Fincher says, stepping in front of me and obstructing the view, his pinched face pissing me off more than usual today. His hairline is receding, his nose the kind that’s a little too sharp and pointynotto think of a bird when you see it. “You listening?”
“No,” I snap, turning and walking for the food, knowing I’m going to need protein and coffee to get through this fucking day. “Leave me alone, Fincher.”
“You need to consider my ideas. I’m your assistant?—”
“Hey, guys,” Bernie says, appearing in the line for food and glancing between the two of us. “Did they put out more omelets?”
Fincher rolls his eyes and turns, heading right out of the dining room.
“Thanks,” I mutter, reaching for a paper cup and filling it with coffee. The coffee here is surprisingly good, coming from a local roastery. “I can’t deal with him right now.”
“He still trying to talk you into changing the lines.”
“Yup,” I say, trying not to grit my teeth at the thought of it. From the moment I got the head coach position over him, he’s been up my ass constantly with newideas—which are really just his opinions on how he’d be doing things if he was in my position.
At first, I took him at face value, assuming he was just doing his best and trying to get used to the new situation. It’s weird to go from being co-workers with someone, to recognizing them as your boss, and I gave him some grace.
But last year, that grace ran out with an “anonymous” source went to a sports news outlet, claiming “inside sources” were convinced I was too difficult to work with, and my assistant coaches could never get a word in edge-wise.
When I went to Karlee about it, she’d brushed it off as being a puff piece, a bunch of nonsense. But I’m pretty sure Fincher is behind it, and I don’t think he’s going to stop at that when it comes to trying to take the head coach position.
“Maybe he’ll cool down when the season starts,” Bernie muses, taking a sip of his coffee as we find a table today.
“Maybe,” I say, though what I really want to say is,doubt it.
“Alright, everybody,” a counselor says, walking into the dining hall with the GM at her side, a clipboard under her arm, and a whistle hanging around her neck. “Who’s ready for another day of team-building?”
For the next four hours, as we move through the various activities at camp—boating, a long hike through the woods, and a water balloon fight—Elsie does everything in her power to avoid me.
She ducks away from the counselor counting offone, two, one, twoto make sure we’re not on the same teams. When we end up near each other during the hike, she kicks it into gear and is sitting on a rock, trying to catch her breath again when the rest of us get to the top of the summit.
The problem isn’t that she’s avoiding me, it’s that she’s not subtle, and each time it happens, I start to feel like everyone is noticing. That her efforts to stay away from me are going to make it very clear that something happened.
“Okay, everyone!” the counselor says, when we’ve had a minute to rest after the hike. “Our next activity is always a favorite. I’d like everyone to grab a pair of gloves from the box, please!”
