Page 57 of Sexting the Coach
I thought Weston might hate me, too.
But he didn’t.
It’s not stupid. The way you feel is never stupid.
His words roll through me, and I feel their warmth all the way down my legs, fighting against the cool air rushing in off the ice.
Obviously, Mabel and Hattie have tried to tell me that I went through something traumatic, too. That I’m allowed to feel itand mourn. Allowed to cry when I remember the moment my skate hit Drew’s leg. The sound of his cries, his pain. And the cold, furious look on my father’s face when he loaded up into the ambulance with Drew.
But I pushed that away. Figured ignoring that pain was just a part of the penance I needed to pay.
Just like Weston’s been ignoring his pain.
“We’re both kind of messed up, aren’t we?” I don’t realize I’m saying it until it’s out of my mouth, and Weston is turning to me, his mouth open in an amused shock. Apparently, I’m full of ridiculous conversation starters tonight.
When I turn to face him, it hits me again. He’ssohandsome. It was true the first time I saw him, and it only becomes truer the more I get to know him. Every time I’m treated to a new expression from him, it makes my brain fizz up with happiness, like I’m unlocking him one piece at a time.
His strong jaw, messy hair. The ever-present backward hat on his head. How heavy those blue eyes are when they catch mine.
“…yeah,” he finally chuckles, looking away from me, shaking his head. “I guess we are. Makes sense though.”
“What does?”
“I mean,” he clears his throat, glances at me, shrugs. “We get along. If things were different, it might be nice to have this thing for real.”
He immediately stiffens, like it’s something he didn’t mean to say.
My mouth goes dry, my heart thudding far too hard in my chest. Before the nausea was only simmering inside me, but now it’s full force again, sticky and climbing right up my trachea like boiling tar.
If things were different. If I was born twenty years earlier, or him twenty years later. If I didn’t work PT for this team. If ourentire relationship wasn’t just a ruse to keep HR off his back, to keep Karlee from suspecting him of foul play.
If things were different, Weston would want me. Would want this.
“Elsie?” he asks, and I realize I’ve gone completely quiet, practically catatonic. I swallow and look up at him, knowing I should say something. There’s a subtle panic on his face, and I want to soothe it away from him, but I don’t know what to say. And I hate the feeling I get that he’s about to take back what he just said. Call it a mistake, just like what he said after the first time we were together. “I?—”
But I’m saved from this moment by another voice cutting through the space, echoing against the swaths of empty bleachers and the wide-open ice in front of us.
“Hey!”
We both startle, turning to look at the man who’s marched down to the stairs and to the ice, looking disgruntled. He’s wearing a jacket that reads SVY Security Systems, his mustache a perfect frown. When he talks, it moves, almost like a cartoon character.
“Hey, man,” Weston says, taking a small step so he’s between me and the security man. “What’s up?”
“You the ones stuck in here?” the guy asks, gesturing up toward the doors. “We got them open. GM says to get you out pronto—they’re going to lock up again when the system goes through its reboot.”
“Oh, right,” Weston says, and together, he and I walk to his car. There’s a weird silence between us, but I can’t think about anything other than the fact that I could throw up at any moment.
When we pull up outside my apartment, I’m a little stunned and silently grateful. We should talk—that’s obvious, based on the weird feeling in the air right now. But I’m worried that if Istick around and try to have a conversation with him about this—about us—I’m going to throw up in the interior of his very nice sports car.
So, I open the door and stand up, swinging my legs out and relishing the cool night air as it hits my face. Before I shut the door, Weston leans forward, tipping his head up to catch my gaze.
“Elsie, wait,” he says, “I’ll walk you?—”
But I can’t be around him right now. I can already feel the blood draining from my face, the saliva pooling in the back of my mouth. Everything feels tingly and light.
“Sorry, Weston,” I whisper, before I slam the door and turn, running through the lobby. The doorman waves to me, his brow wrinkling as I sprint past, trying to give him a quick wave back but mostly focused on keeping everything in until I get to our floor.
The elevator takes forever, but, thankfully, doesn’t stall. When it opens, I run to the front door, practically fainting with relief when Mabel throws it open.
