Page 37 of Sexting the Coach
Sure enough, the Sharks’ goalie waffles and Cortez buries the puck right into the back of the net.
The horns go, and our side of the arena erupts, fans cheering and banging on the glass, waving their towels.
Alright. Not a bad start to the game.
Without meaning to—without really thinking about it, full stop, I’m turning around, eyes seeking out the line of blue polos behind us until I lock on a familiar pair of brown eyes.
Elsie is up on her feet cheering, if it’s possible, even louder than the men with S-Q-U-I-D-S painted across their chests.
The first period flies past, and we hold onto our point without allowing another. At the end of the second period, I’m digging my fingers into my clipboard to keep from swinging on Fincher, who’s been in my ear all night, suggesting moves so stupid it’s almost like he’stryingto sabotage us.
But we pull through, attacking their defense just like I planned. Hanley could be good, if he wasn’t so fucking narcissistic. He’s too selfish with the puck, doesn’t trust his teammates to set up a decent defense with him. It leads tohim giving up possession to us, especially when we play a little harder on him that we should.
Maybe that’s the result of me pulling O’Connell aside and telling him to focus on Hanley. Maybe it’s not.
Either way, I’m not complaining about Hanley flying into the boards, or him losing his footing and wiping out on the ice. I only wish I could turn around and see the look on Elsie’s face, figure out if she likes it as much as I do.
The Sharks score again in the third period, and I pace back and forth, watching, switching out the line again to bring Daugherty out for another face-off.
Then, in the last thirty seconds of the game, Hughes gets the puck, passes it to Cortez, and receives it right back, pulling back for a slap shot and burying the thing in the back of the net.
“Yes!” my cheer is swallowed by the roar of the arena, Squids fans pretty fucking pleased with the game, especially considering the face that the Sharks are our natural geographic rival. The cheers go and go, and don’t die down, and a when I turn to say something to one of the other guys, something slams into me.
I wrap my arms around Elsie, blinking in surprise at the weight and warmth of her, the fact that her body is pressed into mine.
Pulling back, she looks up at me, her eyes shining, and says, “That wasstellar, Weston.”
And then, she kisses me.
I told myself I was going to avoid her, that I wasn’t going to fall into the trap of touching her again. But I’m feeling so good right now, the adrenaline from the win pulsing through me, andshefeels so good, too.
Besides.Shekissedme.
So, I tuck my hand against her lower back and draw her up against me, kissing her hard, ignoring thewhoopsand cheersfrom the other guys on the bench. If every game’s celebration was kissing her like this, I would make sure the Squids never lost even an opening face-off again.
When I pull back from her, Hanley is just skating by our bench, lining up to shake hands, I swear even though the noise I can almost hear him mutter something like, “Very classy.”
Normally, a comment like that would piss me off, but with Elsie in my arms, raising up on her tip-toes to brush her lips again mine again, I’m finding the rage just isn’t there.
Chapter 15
Elsie
My heart pounds alarmingly hard and fast for hours after I leave the arena, my mind playing and replaying the kiss. Returning to me the feeling of Weston’s lips on mine, the way his hands gripped my waist. The tight, insistent touch of him, with just a tinge of frustration, like he wished the kiss of was happening anywhere else.
When the game ended, and I knew the Squids won, it was like my body went rogue. I was standing, then I was rushing down the steps. For the duration of the game, I’d watched him pace back and forth, making calls, glaring at Fincher. It was like I couldn’t look away from him.
There’s something about watching someone in their element. I’d watched a lot of Weston’s film at that point, seen all the games he played in as a right winger, but seeing him as a coach was different.
Because, as much as he doesn’t seem to really believe it, he’sgood. Anticipating what players need before they ask, keeping them from getting too into their heads. Throughout the game, I watched him make adjustments, call out to guys, and deliver a different version of himself to each player based on what they needed most.
And as I watched him, I felt something growing in my chest. Something I didn’t even want tolookat, let alone give a name to.
But I liked watching him in his element. Watching him make calls and talk to the assistant coaches. Seeing the way the guys defer to him, listen to him, follow his lead. He’s an amazing coach. And he looks great in the black pants, inky blue zip-up that’s the typical coach’s uniform.
When I’d turned to the bench, sliding by a couple of celebrating players, there was a second in which I thought Weston might not let me kiss him. That he might exercise some logical thinking and tell me that though PR had asked us to be public, a make-out session at the end of a game might not be the best idea.
His eyes went wide when he saw me, his gaze dipping down to my toes before rising back up the length of my body. And when I touched him, he was all want, pulling me in. I had nothing to worry about, apparently.
