Page 20 of Sexting the Coach
“It’s like asking about someone’s favorite food. Nobody really?—”
“Mac and cheese,” I answer, automatically and without second thought. “That’s my favorite food.”
He raises an eyebrow, “Mac and cheese?”
“Yes, and I won’t be defending it.”
“Probably because you can’t.”
I open my mouth, then shut it again, because Ijustsaid that I would not be defending my favorite food. Instead, I do it in my head—it’s versatile. A food loved by kids and adults alike. It can be classic, or fancy. It’s a comfort food. It’s a staple. It’s a blank canvas onto which you can paint any flavor you want, but the traditional ones always end up being the best.
“I can see the little gears turning in your head,” Weston says, and I realize that without even meaning to, we’ve walked to the PT offices and treatment center, Weston stopping just in front of the threshold like a vampire who needs invited in.
“I think we need to plan a time to get together and go over the basics,” I whisper, leaning in close to him when a couple others from the PT team walk around us to enter the room. “And, I think you should come in and let me do an MRI on you.”
The first thing he doesn’t bat an eye at, but the second has him stepping backward from me like he did outside the dining hall—like I’m nuclear, and he’s desperately trying not to get radiation poisoning.
He’s firmly in the hallway, putting space between himself at the PT treatment center.
“No,” he says, emphatically, his thick brows lowering down over his eyes, the blue of his irises seeming a little darker, with the emotion behind them. “There is absolutely no reason for that. No need to waste team resources.”
“It would not be a waste of team resources,” I counter. “And thereasonis that you’re hurt?—”
He claps a hand over my mouth and practically drags me to the other side of the hallway, and my heart and body react accordingly to his, making my chest tight and my skin flushed. There’s nobody else over here, but Weston looks back and forth before lowering his head toward me.
“You—” he starts, then he pulls his hand back in disgust. “Did you justlickmy hand?”
“Yes,” I whisper fiercely, ignoring the flush, ignoring my rapidly beating hard, ignoring the way his eyes on me feel like they could melt me right into the ground. “I did. You can’t just ignore the fact that you have some sort of injury, Weston. And I’m willing to bet that it’s been bothering you for a lot longer than you’re willing to let on.”
“Drop it, Montgomery,” he orders in his coach voice, and though it makes something tighten between my legs, I’m not going to give in. He may be the head coach of the Squids, but he’s notmyboss.
“You can’t make me,” I counter, rising up on my tip toes and staring into his eyes. “Keep ignoring that thing, and you’re just going to make it worse. Let me do an MRI. Let me figure out what’s wrong, and we can come up with a treatment plan together.”
“Why does this matter so much to you?” he asks, his eyes narrowing, and suddenly I’m on the defensive, shifting my gaze away from his. Can he tell? That he’s found the question to make me drop back on my heels?
I don’t want him to look at me too closely, because he might see the truth there. That I can’t help the person I want to, so I have to try and help everyone else instead.
It’s the only way I’ll ever come close to making up for what I did.
“I’m a physical therapist,” I say, knowing it comes out just a touch robotic. “And I work for the Squids. It’s my job to keep this team in top shape, and that includes you.”
“I can tell you’re lying, Elsie.”
He’s breathing hard, his chest brushing mine with each inhalation, and I swear to god my nervous system is going to be fried if I have to go through any more moments like this. This is what prehistoric humans must have felt like when hunted by lions—all systems at the ready, all senses on high alert.
“Just let mehelpyou, Weston. We can find a fix together.”
For a second, something in his face softens, and I think he might actually give in, let me look at his hip, let me figure out how to make him feel better.
But just as quickly as that look appeared, it’s gone, and he’s shaking his head, stepping back from me, and breaking the moment.
“There’s nothing to fix, because nothing is wrong,” he says, putting even more distance between us. Before he turns and walks down the hallway, he says, “See you later. For our date.”
And with that, Wolfe walks away, but I’m still left feeling like I’m a rabbit who just barely skittered away with its life.
Chapter 8
Weston
