Page 26 of Sexting the Coach
“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 iskiss 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.
Fuckinghell—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 areyoudoing 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.”
Chapter 10
Weston
Ialmost kissed Elsie in that PT room.
It’s the last thing I think about before falling asleep, and it’s the first thing I think of when I wake up. I can picture the room around me, the low light, the faint smell of disinfectant. Can see her staring at me, my body swaying toward her. Whenever I’m around her, it’s like I have no fucking control over myself. Like I’m a magnet, always quietly pulling in her direction.
I almost kissed her, and I would have done a lot more than that if Fincher hadn’t interrupted us.
When I got back home last night, I paced my bedroom, one hand on my hip, thinking through the entire situation, strengthening my resolve against doing anything physical with Elsie Montgomery. I willnotbe touching her. For all the obvious reasons, and perhaps the most important being that I really don’t have time for a real relationship right now.
I roll out of bed and force myself into the shower, relishing the extra time I have right now. Today is our last practice before the regular season starts, and once it gets into swing, everything is going to feel a lot more hurried.
Half an hour later, I have coffee and breakfast, and I’m rolling into the arena, ready to distract myself from thoughts of her with practice. There are still a couple of loose ends with the offense that we need to tighten up, and I’m determined to make sure everything is perfect before the first game.
“Hey, man,” Bernie says, a little out of breath when he finds me, his phone loose in his hand. “Have you seen this?”
“Seen what?” I eye him—Bernie is a little older than me, and that means he often falls prey to fake online shit. Donkeys playing the guitar, celebrities dying, that sort of thing. I might be old, but I’m notthatold.
