Page 70 of Sexting the Coach
Weston
My father was never the kind of drunk who caused problems.
In fact, most people in my family would probably balk at the idea of me calling the man a drunk at all. He had a steady job, never yelled at his kids, never once ruined a birthday party by having one too many.
But he drank beer like other people drink water. He had one the moment he came home in the evenings, and would keep on drinking through supper, up until the moment he went to bed. Whiskey on the weekends. Alcohol was his crutch, and he was as high-functioning as they come.
It’s part of the reason I’ve done by best to avoid the stuff. Keep it light, when I do drink. I’ve been very careful to make sure I don’t end up like my old man.
But last night, I was not careful.
Last night, after we barely scraped by with a win against a team we should have had no problems against, I came back to the hotel, opened the mini bar, and started on the little bottles like I had a world record to break.
I didn’t go down to the hotel bar—that felt like a new low I wouldn’t even succumb to. The last thing I wanted was to put myagony on display for everyone to see. No, I drank myself to the point of black out in the privacy of my stuffy, clinical hotel room, like a man.
Elsie isn’t talking to me.
Fincher is feeling bold enough to call out my injury in front of everyone.
And on top of everything else, the team is slowly starting to unravel. I can feel it happening with each passing game, another opportunity to tighten things up that slips away. Like the players have gone overboard, and I’m desperately trying to pull everyone back onto the ship, but the ocean is tossing them around, pushing them out. When I spend too much time on one person, five others drifts further away.
I should have known better than to think I could handle something like this. Being the head coach. The only reason I am is because Morton fucked up, and for some reason, the Squids chose me over Fincher. I bet they’re regretting that right about now.
All that to say that I drank too much last night, and when I wake up this morning to the notification that I’ve missed my flight, it’s with a pounding headache and a mouth that feels like a hotel towel.
I shoot Bernie a text to let him know I’ll make it back to San Francisco on a different flight, book the next one, and head to the shower to try and wash away some of the pain lacing straight from one temple to the other, cutting through my eyes and throbbing to the beat of my heart.
But when I come back from the bathroom, going through the motions of packing up my things like a robot programmed to live my life for me, I find another notification on the phone.
From the PR team. Tamra asking me to come in for a meeting the moment I land in San Francisco. Saying it’s urgent.
And this time, I get the feeling that it’s not going to be a twist ending, like the last time I went to her office. Last time, Elsie and I were expecting the worst, and instead got a PR team that seemed to be decently happy with us.
This time, we’re not so lucky.
I sit down on the bed, holding the phone loosely in my hands, eyes scanning and re-scanning the email. Someone has leaked a video of Elsie and I, sitting outside the rink. When we were taking our skates off, talking about our relationship.
The moment that blew everything up for me. When I told her I wanted things to be real between us, and she responded to that by running away and calling in sick for the next two weeks. Ignoring my texts and calls.
I only know she’s alive because when I caught her roommate outside the PT center the other day—wearing the same polo as Elsie but not looking even half as good—the roommate begrudgingly told me so.
“She’s alive,” Mabel had said, her eyes hard, expression steely. “I can’t tell you anything else, Wolfe.”
Now, I tap on the attachment and watch the video. It’s all there—us admitting that the relationship is fake. Me, moving closer to her. Elsie shying away.
This video does not cast me in a good light. There’s nothing illicit happening—not anything close to what Morton did to those interns—but I know after a situation like that, admin is not about to go easy on me, and this is enough.
Letting the phone fall from my hands, I collapse back onto the bed, throwing an arm over my face.
The last thing I want to do is meet with these fuckers right now.
But there is one upside to all this—if they want to meet with me, that means they’re also going to meet with Elsie.
When I get back to San Francisco, I’ll have one shot to catch her after the meeting. Tell her—what?
Standing, I move with more purpose, the headache fading away. I’ll use the plane ride to think through this. Figure out what to say.
Because when I see Elsie again, I’m going to convince her to stay with me. Things have been too good these past few weeks to just let this thing between us go.
