Page 8 of Sexting the Coach
“Sorry,” I cough, “I’m just not feeling very well.”
She eyes me suspiciously as she rises from the bed, going to the mirror on the other wall and starting to run a brush through her long hair. It’s black at the root, where it’s growing in, and red down the rest of the length, long and straight.
I should be able to tell her.
But I can’t.
Why? Because I’m embarrassed, probably. I can’t believe I chased after him like that. It’s like I completely lost my capacity for rational thought, pushing right into his room without knocking.
If he reports me to HR, I’ll be fired tomorrow.
Thatthought sends a jolt of anxiety through me, and I try not to think about it. Try not to linger on what would happen if I lost this job before I ever really got a chance to experience it.
An hour later, Mabel has cut the light and is on her side, her hair neatly braided, face cream slathered on, an eye mask blocking out the world. She takes her sleep very seriously.
I should, too.
But I still can’t stop thinking about Weston, so I force myself to sit up. I run my hands through my hair, tap my fingers against my leg, then reach over to the nightstand for my phone and ear buds.
A moment later, white fills my screen—a hockey game from twenty years ago, Weston Wolfe looking strikingly similar to how he does now, crouching on the ice, the camera focusing in on his determined expression.
As the game plays through, I keep a close eye on how he skates, how he shifts his weight, the way he swings his stick and connects with the puck.
There’s nothing to indicate an injury with his hip.
For hours, I watch through more and more of his film, until I finally find a game in which there’s a slight delay, a slight twinge from him.
Near the end of his career. That final season, when they made it to the Stanley Cup but didn’t leave with the trophy.
“…What astounds me is thiscarefulkind of play we’re seeing from Wolfe tonight, Steve. He is not usually quite so reserved.”
“I agree. The Squids on the ice tonight is not the same team we saw throughout the season.”
Was he injured at some point in his final season? Or is that just when it got so bad that he couldn’t hide it anymore?
If I could just take a look at him—do some scans, some mobility tests—then I’d be able to figure it out. Get him on atreatment plan so he wouldn’t have to grit his teeth, hide the pain anymore.
Which brings me back to the thought of him standing in front of that mirror, his hat turned backward, and his chin tipped down, all that tanned skin on display. Every time I return to it—to me stepping forward andtouchinghim, it sets my entire body on fire, until I’m really hating the fact that I’m sharing this room with Mabel.
If I was alone, I might be able to do something about the incessant, building pressure between my legs.
At around two in the morning, I decide enough isenough—I have to do something to get him out of my head.
Tapping away from the old hockey games playing on my phone, I pull up my text messages, scrolling down from the most recent ones—my group chat with Mabel and Hattie, texts with my mom—and down to the drafts.
Hattie says it’s crazy, but she’s known me long enough to know text drafting is my favorite way to get something off my chest.
My old best friend from high school, who changed friend groups and told everyone my prom dress wasfrumpy. The dance team coach who told me I’d never make it with weak ankles.
My ex, Jonathan Hanley, who was supposed to play for the Squids this year, but suddenly decided to cancel his trade to the team. He’d broken up with me over text, so it was only appropriate to draft out every horrible, hurtful thing I wanted to say to him in the same place.
It’s not like our break-up was even that devastating. I went through all the motions—crying, eating some ice cream, signing back up for my pilates class—but both Hattie and Mabel commented on how, as a pretty emotional person, I didn’t really seem all that broken up about it.
The screen in front of my face brings me back to the present, a name flashing at the top of the screen.Drew.
It’s the text thread with the most unsent messages—the one for my brother.
I swallow down the lump that forms in my throat at the thought of everything that I need to say to him, everything I know I’ll never say to him. That’s just not the way we do it in our family. And, besides, he’s still too angry with me for me to get through to him.
