Page 67 of Sexting the Coach
“Elsie,” I correct, even though it feels juvenile.
“Elsie,” Bernie amends, looking to the ceiling for a moment. “Whatever is going on withElsieis fucking things up for us, son.”
Maybe it’s the fact that he’s coming to me like this, or maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t spoken to my actual father since last Christmas. He was always more of a football guy. Big Patriots fan, didn’t understand my interest in hockey. Thought it was too chaotic, that the consistent marching down a 100-yard field was much more interesting to watch than the constant back-and-forth of a hockey game.
And, somehow, that difference in interests, in opinions, managed to set me adrift from my entire family. No big drama, to fight or incident, like Elsie. Just a slow creep of our lives being different until I find myself here, confiding in Bernie like he’s my real dad.
“I’m in love with her,” I say, quietly. “But I’m pretty sure she doesn’t feel that way about me. Or, if she does, the age thing is in the way. Or my past. Or?—”
I stop myself just short of mentioning my hip. Part of me knows I could confide in him about this, but I don’t. The last thing I need is for Fincher to overhear it, blame the recent bad streak of losses on my aching hip.
Bernie closes the door to my office, sinks down into the chair across from my desk. For a long moment, we sit quietly together,and he finally takes a deep breath, looking up and meeting my gaze.
“You know,” he says, “there are some people in life who are able to balance everything perfectly. Who get to have a careerandthe family. Everything works out. I hate to say it, Weston, but I’ve never gotten that feeling about you. It seems to me that it’s going to have to be one or the other for you. And if that girl isn’t interested…maybe it’s a good idea for you to focus your attention on the team.”
It’s a fucking blow.
My chest squeezes in, and I rub at it, concerned for a second that I might actually be having a heart attack.
It never felt like this with Leda.
Probably because I was never really in love with her.
“But who knows,” Bernie says shrugging and leaning back in his seat, letting out a breath and meeting my gaze. “I could be wrong about it. It’s up to you, boss. But I’d think long and hard about where your priorities lie before you accidentally let go of something without realizing how devastating it might be to lose it.”
With that, Bernie nods, stands up, and moves for the door. I sit with the weight of his advice, feeling uncertain. Unsure.
He’s got ten years on me. More knowledge, more wisdom.
And, for some reason, I can’t shake the feeling that the guy doesn’t really know what he’s saying. That maybe my ability to have both lies within me, and not in the hands of the universe.
Then again, it’s not like I have any evidence to show that.
Cursing under my breath, I stand and grab an unsharpened pencil from my desk. Then I snap the thing in half, drop the two pieces into the trash, and walk out of my office without looking back.
Of course, I’m coming down the stairs to the locker rooms when my hip twinges and my leg floods with pain.
“Fuck,” I hiss, stopping at the bottom and resisting the urge to clutch at the thing. There’s the constant, dull ache of the injury, but I’ve gotten used to that, so it’s nothing more than background noise in the day-to-day of my life.
This pain is nothing like that. This pain is imminent, directly in my face, and pressing. I breathe through it and take the rest of the steps down to the hallway outside the locker room, only to come face-to-face with the one guy I don’t want to see.
“What’s up with you?” Fincher asks, eyeing me up and down, something glinting over his face. He knows what’s wrong with me—or thatsomethingis wrong with me. He’s been hunting that fact out like a fucking bloodhound since the day I got the coaching position over him.
“Nothing,” I grunt, stepping to move past him, but Fincher blocks my path, and if it weren’t for the pain ricocheting through my body, that I can practically feel in my fucking teeth, I would level him here and now. “Get out of my way?—”
“I’m concerned for you,” Fincher says, though his voice drips with a condescension that’s nowhere near concern. “Are you limping?”
Without even looking past him, I can see that we have an audience. Bernie and some of the other assistant coaches are standing outside the locker room. Likely, the players can hear this exchange, especially considering how fucking loud Fincher is talking.
“Move out of my way.”
“You need to be honest with the team, Wolfe,” Fincher snaps, gesturing back to the other coaches. “If you’re not at one hundred percent?—”
“He’s fine, Fincher,” Bernie says, stepping forward, raising his hands up like this is a hostage negotiation. “And now is not the time to be getting into this. The guys are in there, and the last thing they need is to hear coaches going at it.”
“Of course you’re defending him,” Fincher says, rolling his eyes and turning to address the other coaches. “Let’s all just be fucking honest for a moment. Has Wolfe, or has he not been distracted? If it’s not the injury, then it’s something to do with that little blond bitch from PT?—”
I don’t even realize I’m swinging until my fist collides with Fincher’s jaw. He lurches back so my knuckles only graze his skin, and he practically falls into Miles, one of the other coaches. Miles holds Fincher for only a moment before pushing him up onto his feet and stepping away as Fincher stumbles.
