Page 2 of Sexting the Coach
Dark blue eyes that send a jolt down your spine when you meet them, the challenge there impossible not to rise to.
“Elsie!”
I startle, blinking at Karlee, who stands at the center of the field, a whistle hanging from her lips, an expectant look on her face.
“Right,” I say, forcing a smile onto my face and hoping nobody saw me ogling—except when I glance at Mabel, her expression is basically laughing at me.
I shake myself out and run over to the red jersey group, listening to one of the younger guys—Elroy Wheeler, a center—standing in the middle and detailing our offensive plan.
“Montgomery,” he says, pointing at me with the football after his long spiel. “You’re our running back.”
I shake my head at him—my understanding of football is rudimentary at best, butrunning backsounds like something a little out of my depth. “Me?”
“That’s right,” he says, grinning a little evilly. “That defense isn’t gonna wanna go after a girl. Besides, they’re all scared of your dad.”
My dad. Team legend.
“It’s not tackle football,” I protest, and another one of the guys laughs, shaking his head at me.
“Always turns into it,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder. “You’d better hope Wheeler is right about them not coming after you.”
Five minutes later, I’m standing behind what I’m told is the offensive line, hands shaking.
Mabel whoops from the other side of the field as they snap the ball and I run forward, Wheeler rocketing the thing into my stomach so hard I wheeze.
I may not be a professional athlete, and I may not know much about football, but Idoknow how to run.
My muscles jump to attention, years of ice-skating practice flooding back through my body. I dart and dance, spinning around every guy who reaches out to touch me.
They’re surprised. I'm fast. I'm nimble.
That is, until I’m staring down nothing but the open field.
Toward Weston Wolfe.
All six foot four of him.
“Slow down, Montgomery,” he shouts out, his knees bent, that scowl firmly on his face. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Good luck!” I huff, running even harder and faster.
He shakes his head, a stiff competitive look crossing his face that sends shivers down my back.
His eyes are locked on me.
His expression says he’s not backing down.
I’ve seen that look on his face before, when I used to watch hockey with my dad. We’d watch whatever games were on—Dad didn’t really have allegiance to a certain team—but I’d always secretly enjoyed watching the college games. Seeing the guys, like Weston, fighting for their right to head to the big leagues.
Then, before he became a coach, Weston Wolfe was an unstoppable right winger, brutal and exacting, doing whatever it took to get that puck under his control. By that time Weston was at the height of his career.
“Go, Elsie!”
“Run!”
“Juke him out!”
I don’t know what that means, but I have an idea.
