Page 6 of Sexting the Coach
She’s wearing a little pair of pink shorts, a white t-shirt that readsEagle’s Landing Camp.It’s too short for her long torso, revealing a little strip of skin between the top of the shorts and the hem of the shirt.
Her blond hair is tied up hastily into some sort of bun, bits of it poking out and falling into her face, her eyes locked on me, wide and glinting in the light.
Fucking hell.
How did this woman come fromAugust Montgomery, of all people? The guy is a legendary player, but he looks like a fucking thumb.
And Elsie doesnot.
She’s all long limbs and smooth skin.
In another life, she easily could have been a ballerina, a dancer, and with the grace she has, it’s a wonder that she didn’t opt to do something with that athleticism and beauty, instead of becoming a PT.
Her cheeks are scarlet, the flush spreading from her face and down to her chest in splotches.
It sends a shot of heat through me, like I’m catching it from her.
I’ve never met another person who wore their feelings on her sleave the way she does. You never have to ask her what she’s thinking—she’ll laugh, smile, frown, or blush her way into telling you.
Just another infuriating thing about her. The least she could do is shove them down, like the rest of us.
But she’s not covering it up at all.
Not the dark look in her eyes.
Not the way her chest rises and falls.
Not how her lips part slightly, her hand slipping limply off the doorknob.
“I’m—I’m sorry?—”
“What the hell are you doing?” I get control of myself at the sound of her voice, snatching my shirt off the bed, fumbling, trying to find the arm and neck holes.
Distantly, in the back of my mind, the primate side of me is preening, proud of the fact that one glance at me apparently got her this hot and bothered.
But the other part of me—the part that’s much more worried over someone finding out about this injury—pushes that guy to the side, taking front and center stage.
“I—” At first, she looks like a chastened girl, but something thunders over her face, and she quickly turns into a pissed-off woman. A determined set to her eyes, her soft mouth going hard. This is a look I’ve been on the receiving end of many times before. “You’rehurt.”
“I’m not,” I counter, thinking that should be the end of it. But she just crosses her arms and leans against the door jamb. Her proximity to me scrambles my thoughts, like some sort of signal jammer.
“You werelimping,” she says, swinging her arm toward the field, as though she can summon up an instant replay.Didshe see me limping? I thought I’d hidden it pretty well. Does that mean the other guys saw it as well?
Fuck.
“I was not,” I say, and now it’s my turn to cross my arms. I don’t miss the way her gaze drops down to my chest, her throat bobbing for a moment as she takes me in, then seems to gather herself and force her eyes back up to mine.
“What is this, gas lighting one-o-one?” She steps closer to me, crossing the threshold into my room, her eyes locked on mine. “I’m a physical therapist, Wolfe, I know pain when I see it. What was it? From the fall?”
I should have covered that wince when I first fell. I should have thought about the fact that she was right there, practically nose-to-nose with me, and she was going to see it.
And, knowing what she’s like from the past few weeks of having her on the team, I should have known she wouldn’t drop it that easily.
“I’mnottalking to you about this?—”
“If you just tell me where it’s hurting, I can take a look at it,” she insists, taking another step toward me.
And already I know this is getting into dangerous territory.
