Page 33 of Sexting the Coach
“I still can’t believe you’re doing this,” Hattie says, twisting around and crossing her arms. She’s wearing a loose pink overall lounge set and looks adorable in it. There’s a swipe of paint overher left forearm, and her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail. “And I just want to make it clear that I’mnoton board with it.”
“You’ve made thatveryclear,” Mabel says, and though I can’t see her face, I can practically feel her rolling her eyes. “Maybe Elsie wants to live a little, Hats. Don’t act like you wouldn’t be on board for a little fun with the handsome coach?—”
“There’s been no fun time—” I interject, interrupting myself when I hear my phone ping in my pocket. Sliding it out, I see that Weston has texted.
Weston:On my way.
“Don’t watch!” I warn once more, even though I know neither of them is going to listen, before I turn and push out the front door. The hallway is mercifully empty, so I don’t have to make small talk with any of our neighbors, and by the time I make it down to the street, Weston is pulling around the side street, his blinker casting the road in yellow as he turns.
I feel Hattie and Mabel watching as he pulls up to the curb in a sleek black sports car, which beeps twice when he gets out of it, shaking his head at me.
“Don’t you dare touch that door,” he warns, picking up the pace and pushing my hand to the side, insisting on opening the door for me.
“Oh, please,” I laugh, “is this real?”
“Not about to let a photo of me making you open your own doors make the rounds online.”
“Wow, what a gentleman,” I laugh, then I realize that maybe he’s been through this before—with his ex-wife. Did photos of him come out? Did people pick apart their relationship, accuse him of being a bad boyfriend, husband?
He shuts the door and circles around to the front, and I’m caught between admiring him—in a casual gray suit, the front open to reveal a white undershirt—and taking in his car—some fancy sports car that smells like rich leather and oozes luxury.
By the time he opens the driver’s side door, I’ve already pressed each button on the dash, laughing when one of them turns on a seat cooler that makes me feel like my ass is wet.
“Okay,” he says, rolling his eyes at me and pushing my hand away from the console. “Let’s not touch things in the car, okay?”
I smile and lean back in the seat as he pulls away from the curb, thankfully not taking advantage of the horsepower in this thing. Weston is a careful driver, and by the time we roll up outside the restaurant, I’m not even carsick, which is a feat for me. Usually, if I’m anywhere but the driver’s seat, I’m ready to throw up after the second turn.
Once again, he insists on opening my door for me, then tosses his keys to the valet like some sort of movie star. I roll my eyes at it, even as his cool confidence does numbers on my stomach.
“Alright,” Weston says, as we walk toward the host, snapping off his sunglasses and tucking them into his pocket. When he glances at me, I have to bite my tongue at how handsome he is right now, in the light of the setting San Francisco sun. “Ready to do this?”
“Yes,” I say, smiling and taking his arm, reminding myself, not for the first time, that this thing isfake. An act. A performance.
And I need to remember that.
Inside, after we’re seated, I prepare myself for stilted, awkward conversation, but it doesn’t happen. Instead, Weston and I talk about the Squids, about the Blue Crabs, about hockey in general. Our next game is against the Sharks, a team with a lackluster defense at best. If Weston is surprised by my hockey knowledge, he doesn’t comment on it, and eventually I accidentally let it slip about Jonathan being my ex.
“Is that so?” Weston says, in a way that makes me think he already knew that.
“Yeah,” I say, taking a sip of my wine and shrugging. “But it was never super serious with us—it was always destined to end. And honestly, he was always kind of a dick. I just wish he’d have told me before he suddenly traded away like that.”
“Yeah,” Weston laughs, holding his glass up to mine, so the crystal clinks together gently. “I’ll toast to that.”
Then the meal is over, and Weston is tucking me back into his car. The streets are dark now, except for the pools of golden light cast by the streetlights.
“That was nice,” he says, and when I nod, I get the sense that this is when a real couple might hold hands. I twist my fingers together in my lap to keep from reaching for him, my mind already itching to know what his hand would feel like in mine.
When we pull up to my building, Weston’s eyes narrow. “It’s dark,” he says, turning his car off before I can protest. “I’m going to walk you in.”
He doesn’t just walk me to the door, but follows me to the elevator, nodding at the doorman, who waves at both of us.
We step inside, and it’s like I can hear my heart beating in my ears. He’s a good guy—obviously, I didn’t think he was evil, or anything—but he’s more than that. Opening doors for me, delivering me directly to my apartment door.
Jonathan had asked me to take the bus home—or order an Uber—after some of our dates. I’m not used to a man going to this length to make sure I’m safe, but it warms something inside me, urging me to say something.
A strange tension starts to grow between us, and I’m holding my breath, counting the seconds down until we’ll get to my floor and we can break this tension, when the elevator sticks.
“What the hell?” Weston asks, his eyes flying to mine.
