Page 21 of Sexting the Coach
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 softtapsagainst 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.
“WestonWolfe, 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 differentemotion is much more potent. Something closer to relief. “Butnobodycan 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, andespeciallyFincher. 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.”
