Page 51 of Sexting the Coach
“It’s just weird,” I say, trying to ignore the sting at Weston checking on it. He’s probably ready to have me out of his place. “That they still care so much about this.”
Weston shrugs, settling into the seat beside me, the streetlights flickering over his profile. When he turns to me, it almost knocks the breath out of me, how handsome he is in this low, flickering light. “Just give it some time. They’ll find something else to latch onto.”
“Yeah, but it’s kind of wild that they’re acting like this, right?” I shift my body, knees angling toward him, so I can get a better look at him. “I’m just a physical therapist.”
“Just a PT,” Weston says, raising his eyebrows, “and the daughter of a hall-of-famer, dating an NHL coach, whose ex-wife is making comments about your relationship.”
“I think Leda and I could be friends,” I pout, and when it makes Weston laugh, I have the urge to do it again and again, just so I can hear the noise.
“You are so drunk,” he says, voice soft, his thumb brushing over my knee for a fraction of a second, so quick I might have imagined it
When we pull up to his place, there are notably none of the paparazzi that are outside of mine. Weston tips the driver and he and I walk through the front gate with ease. I stumble trying to climb the steps, and Weston is right there by my side, guiding me up and keeping a hand on my back like he’s worried I might slip and tumble all the way back down.
For the slightest moment, we pause at the top of the stairs, and I feel his eyes land on me and leave like a hummingbird, just barely touching down. I want to go to his room, lay in his huge four-poster bed, but the shame and embarrassment from the other night comes barreling back over me.
I walk to the guest room, and when I stumble again, Weston comes in with me. When I try to lay down in my swimsuit and cover up, he insists I change into something else, and when he can’t find my pajamas, he returns with a pair of his shorts and a shirt that swallow me whole.
“You’re huge,” I mutter. “And you can turn around.”
When he does, his eyes landing on me in his clothes, something flickers over his face to fast for drunk me to process.
“Alright,” he says, voice rough.
“Wait—” I pat the bed spread. “Tuck me in?”
I have no idea where this is going until he comes over, and I surge up, wrapping my arms around his neck.
“Elsie,” he says, his hands flying to my elbows. “What are you?—”
“I’m sorry,” I breathe.
“…sorry? For what?”
My face burns with shame, but drunk me is rolling right through this interaction, not stopping on account of the mortification. “For the other night,” I clarify, swallowing, glad I’m holding him like this so he can’t see how red my cheeks are. “When you…well, you spent a lot of time on me, and I was like a frat guy. Falling asleep.”
He’s quiet for a moment, then I feel his throat against me as he swallows. “Elsie. That was—you don’t have to worry about that kind of thing.”
“I wassoembarrassed,” I squeeze my eyes shut, surprised at the relief that I already feel at getting this off my chest. “You probably thought I was like a dead fish.”
“No.” Weston pushes me back, shaking his head, his eyes meeting mine. “Was that—was that theoh God?”
“What?”
“When you woke up,” he says, staring into my eyes. “You saidoh God. I thought you regretting what we did.”
“No,” I breathe, shaking my head, clumsily trying to push the hair from my face. “I only regretted falling asleep. It’s…it’s all I’ve been able to think about. How much I don’t regret it. How much I want to do it again.”
Weston makes a noise, frowns, runs a hand through his hair. “Okay. Good to know.”
With that, he turns to leave. Regret and wanting rush through me at the sight of him walking away. It’s like my body just can’t let him leave, and my hand snaps up, wrapping around his wrist.
“Wait.”
He turns, his eyes heavy with something I can’t identify. When he says nothing, I forge ahead, swallowing, tugging on his wrist.
“Will you stay?”
And, to my surprise, he does.
