Page 22 of Sexting the Coach
“Oh, hey—you can take my seat.”
I blink at the guy standing in front of me—one of the game day assistants who, for some reason, looks like he might shit his pants.
I’m standing in the aisle of the team plane, my duffel bag held in front of me, just trying to get to my normal spot sitting with the other coaches. We usually use this time to go over film, talk strategy, or just nap if we know we have stuff locked down.
“No, man, that’s alright—” I start, but it’s when he moves from his aisle that I realize why he’s moving so quickly.
Elsie stares up at me from the window seat, her eyes widening when she sees me. She’s wearing a soft pink sweat set, the sleeves of her sweatshirt puffy, her hair back in two braids, the small white stick of a sucker poking out the corner of her mouth.
Last night I walked her to the car, still grappling with my decision to let her treat my hip. And this morning, when I woke up, she as the first thing I thought about.
The assistant has already disappeared into the back of the plane, and I’m holding up the line, so I turn, dropping into the seat next to her, tucking my duffel under the seat in front of me and glancing up at her.
“Is it okay if I sit here?” I ask, and her eyes sparkle as she looks at me, raising a single eyebrow in a move I recognize as a parody of my own.
“That’s what a good boyfriend would do,” she whispers.
“Ha.” Why is my heart beating like this? I busy myself unzipping my jacket and settling back into the seat, then look over at her when it feels like I have a little better control over my body. “Maybe we should go through some of those questions right now.”
“Questions?” she asks, moving the sucker from one side to the other.
“Yeah—favorite colors, or whatever.”
She nods slowly, then surprises me by reaching up and touching the brim of my ball cap. I feel the little tug in the back of my head, and I resist the urge to reach up and take her hand in my own, folding our fingers together.
Touching her is abadidea.
“Okay, so my first question is about this,” she says, dropping her hand from my hat.
“About my hat?”
“Yeah, like, why are you always wearing one?”
I swallow, glancing away from her. One question in, and already it’s one I don’t want to answer.
“Next,” I mutter, and she laughs, sitting back in her seat.
“Next?”
“Yeah, next question.”
“Okay, fine—why did you get a divorce from Leda Temple?”
“Fuck, are you like, pulling these questions from a how-to torture book?” I laugh and rub my hand over my eyes, then let my head loll over to her. “How about I start with a question for you?”
She shifts eagerly in her seat like a puppy gearing up to catch a treat from the air. In her eyes shines a determination, likely to show me that she’s more game to answer these questions than I am. “Fine. Works for me.”
“Why physical therapy?”
“…what?”
“I mean, I’m assuming you grew up with a lot of resources,” I say, shrugging one shoulder. “And a lot of influence. You could have done hockey yourself or could have doneanything. Why PT, and why here, in the NHL?”
Just like I thought it would, it strikes a chord, and she looks away from me, swallowing. The plane starts it taxi to the runway, but it’s like Elsie doesn’t even notice.
“It’s just always been interesting to me,” she says. “In high school, I worked in an after-school program, and there was this little girl who had been in a car accident. I saw how PT helped her get back her ability to walk. Then, later, once I was in school, I worked in a pediatrics specialty practice for some of my clinicals, and I really liked it.”
“So, you’re planning to have kids?”
