Page 19 of Sexting the Coach
“Alright,” I say, knowing I sound a little too chipper, but I think I used up all my good acting on Karlee at the camp a few nights ago. Since then, I’ve done my best to ignore her, turning down her offer to grab coffee on Sunday because I wasn’t sure I could keep pulling off the lie about dating Weston if we were alone.
Now, I feel confident until I look down and see the form I have has me filling out information for both meandWeston.
I write down his first and last name confidently, then when I realize it’s asking for the middle name, I blanch, deciding I’ll just skip to the next section.
But the next section is his address, then his phone number. I got it from the staff directory, but it’s not like I know his numberfrom the top of my head. As I make my way through the form, I blink at box after box that I don’t have the answers to. When I try to surreptitiously glance over at Weston, his brow is furrowed, and I realize he’s having exactly the same problem as me.
“Is there an issue?” the HR guy asks, leaning up over the desk to look at our forms, frowning when he sees we’ve only filled out our own information.
“We’re still pretty new, you know,” Weston grumbles, clearing his throat and setting his clipboard up on the desk, crossing his arms. He’s wearing a jacket—it’s not like there’s even any bare skin on display. So why are my eyes straining to dart over to him, take in the stretch over his chest? “So, I don’t know some of this stuff.”
“You don’t know her middle name?” the guys asks, glancing at me likeJesus Christ, this guy? But then he seems to realize I don’t know Weston’s, either.
“Ri-ight,” he says, clearing his throat and sitting back in his seat. “This kind of paperwork is really forseriousrelationships, not, like, a hook-up, or, uh,informalkind of situation?—”
Oh mygod, my face is on fire.
If Mabel and Hattie were here, they’d be falling apart with laughter—I am not ahook-upkind of girl. I’ll fall in love with anything that looks at me nicely, which was part of the problem with Jonathan. Even through the on and offs of our relationship, I couldn’t really bring myself to date other people. I couldn’t do casual if my life depended on it.
And I never imagined myself having this kind of conversation with human resources at work. Especially not in front of Weston Wolfe, of all people.
“We’re serious,” Weston says, his voice getting that hard line to it that I’ve noticed from when he’s coaching. I ignore the way it sparks a note of adrenaline in me, my heart beating just a little bit faster. It’s all a performance. “We’re just—new. The generalmanager is the one who told us to meet with you, but if you want me to tell her she’s wrong?—”
The HR guy sits up in his seat fast, shaking his head, blinking fast, “No, no, that’s alright. Why don’t the two of you just work together on the forms so we can get this done. And you can tell Karlee everything is taken care of.”
“Right,” Weston says, nodding, and when I glance over at him, hewinksat me. Apparently, Karlee’s scariness can be used to our advantage. And Weston knew that—it makes me think of his strategic coaching with the team. Knowing what to do to get what he wants.
There’s something like—what? Pride? His competence—and the fact that the HR guy backed down immediately—is attractive to me.
When we’re finished with the paperwork, we walk out of the HR office and down the hall together, each quiet, both of us thinking, our shoes tapping the floor rhythmically.
“We’re going to need to sort that out,” I say, jerking my thumb over my shoulder toward the offices. Weston jumps a little, like he forgot I was here, walking next to him.
“Isn’t that what we just did?”
“No, I mean, like, we’re going to have toknowstuff about each other if we want to pull this off. You know what I mean?”
“What, you have some deep dark secrets you’re gearing up to share with me?’
Unbidden, the memory of that day on the ice comes screaming into my mind. Snowflakes drifting down. All the blood.
I slam against the panic in my chest and head, pushing it back down into its box where it belongs, getting as loud as I can in my mind to keep it from taking over. When I surface a moment later, Weston is giving me a strange look.
“No,” I say, a little too quickly, knowing I’m breathing hard. “But I think we’re going to need to knowsurfacelevel stuff about each other if people are going to believe we’re actually dating. Like, I don’t even know your favorite color.”
“Black.”
“Black isn’t a color?—”
He holds up a hand, narrows his eyes at me, “How did I know you were going to say that? Fine, thenthiscolor.”
Weston points to the nearly-black, bluish ink color on his hoodie, the team color for the Squids. I barely keep myself from laughing.
“Don’t you think that’s kind of a cliche favorite color?”
“Don’t you think asking about someone’s favorite color is kind of cliche?”
“No, it’s fundamental.”
