Page 1 of Sexting the Coach
Chapter 1
Elsie
What's hotter than playing touch footballwith a team of professional hockey players at your new job?
Getting tackled by the silver fox coach.
When I woke up this morning, I knew I’d be surrounded by the players, but I had no idea just how close I’d get to Weston Wolfe.
I walk out onto the field. The sun streams through the alders and pines and I stop for a second to close my eyes and breathe it all in.
The damp smell of the lawn, the faint buzz of insects, and the shouting from oversized athletes with an extra dose of testosterone.
“Are you seriously stopping to smell the roses?” Mabel jokes. She rolls her eyes and tosses her long, blood-red hair over her shoulder. We were friends in our Physical Therapy program at school, and now we’ve managed to both get spots on the PT team here, too. I’m happy to have her with me. “You’re too chipper about this. You’re really excited to spend a week in the outdoors with a bunch of hockey players?”
“This is a dream come true for me,” I say to her. It’s hard to wrap my head around the fact that I am one of the 154 attendees at the San Francisco Squids Pre-season Team Building Camp.
“Now, get to stretching. Set a good example for these guys.” Karlee—the squid’s GM and a close family friend of mine—says. She tosses us each a jersey: one red, one blue.
Mabel and I drop to the grass, reaching for our toes and looking around the field, taking in the others.
Obviously, it’s mostly hockey players, Neil Cuevas, the VP, some people from HR and PR, and a whole slew of coaches.
Including Weston Wolfe.
Head coach.
And already a massive pain in my ass.
He’s on the other side of the field, casually tossing a football back and forth with one of the assistant coaches.
Everyone else is smiling, which makes sense—it’s a beautiful day, there’s plenty of open space, and everyone together—but Weston is, as per usual, scowling.
He’s clearly older than the rest of us.
A little younger than my dad, but definitely a different generation.
Though he doesn’t look it.
He’s wearing a black Squids hat on backwards, his brown hair sticking out from under it in a way that’s almost boyish.
Does he wear that jockey to hide the specks of gray in his hair?
My gaze goes down to his torso. His Squids t-shirt hugs his chest and biceps.
And I wet my lips.
He has those strong hockey legs that come from years and years on the ice, a confident sway to his movements.
My eyes hitch on his hands as they wrap around a football, the smooth way he draws back, the perfect spiral of the throw as he releases.
His body is tight, graceful, but with a certain tense quality that you want to dig your hands into.
A lap you want to sit in.
Skin you want to skim your nails over.
Scruff on his jaw you could drag over your cheek.
