Page 24 of Sexting the Coach
“Nothing? Nobody has ever done something sweet for you in yourlife?”
“My ex-wife was not exactly cuddly,” he says, leaning back in his chair and propping his ankle up on the opposite knee, but under the joking tone there’s something almost like hurt.
Weston Wolfe has never had someone do something sweet for him. I file that away.
“I had this painting my brother made for me when we were kids,” I say, clearing my throat and staring at the paper, to keep from looking up at the man sitting across from me. “It was damaged when we moved. Hattie and Mabel paid to have it repaired.”
“Hattie and Mabel, your roommates.”
“Hattie and Mabel, my roommatesandbest friends,” I amend, opening my mouth to ask him abouthisbest friends, but he speaks first.
“Right. What’s the next question?”
I glance down at the list. “What would be the title of your autobiography if you wrote it today?”
“Ha,” he says, shaking his head. “How to Lose the Stanley Cup.”
Right after it comes out of his mouth, his face seems to rearrange into something a little harder, like he realizes that was a vulnerable thing to say. I already know exactly what he’s talking about—two years ago, before he became an assistant coach for the Squids, he was playing. That season, his team made it all the way through the play-offs, and to the last game of the Stanley Cup, but didn’t win.
Those are the videos I watched. In which I could tell he was favoring his hip, trying to keep the weight off it.
“Mine would be,August Montgomery Has a Daughter,” I say, clearing my throat, trying to smile. I was trying to come up with something funny, but I’ve accidentally done the same thing as Weston—offering up an answer that’s just a little too vulnerable.
“What, most people don’t know that?” Weston fiddles with a packet of sugar—I’ve noticed he’s always looking for something to do with his hands.
“No—I mean, most of them were pretty interested in his son.”
Why did I say that?
The last thing I want is for Weston’s attention to be drawn to my brother. For him to start asking questions about Drew. Even thinking his name makes me feel hot, sweat accumulating on my hair line.
Weston leans forward, raising an eyebrow, but before he can say anything or ask me about that, I look down at the list and ask the next question.
“Do you believe in having one best friend?” I blurt.
“Sure,” he shrugs the way he does, with just the one shoulder. “I mean—you should probably pick your partner as your best friend, right?”
“I don’t know,” I joke, desperate to get away from the serious questions. I glance down at the bulldog, who’s now laying on his stomach, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. “I guess that’s what a good boyfriend would do.”
“Are you claustrophobic?”
“No.”
“Do you have any implants?”
“Also, no—I filled all this in on that stupid questionnaire. What’s the point in asking me again?”
Weston is sitting in the PT room with me. Outside the windows, the San Francisco sky is dark, a few palm trees rustling in the wind. I have the window cracked, despite the fact that it’s been getting a little chillier at night, and the cool breeze floats in, carrying with it the scent of the ocean.
I have a couple of lights on in here, but it’s dimmer than it is during the day, so the lights from various machines blink, red and soft, from across the room. Weston has seemed very paranoid about anyone finding out he’s hurt, and keeping the lights low felt like another way to keep the whole thing quiet.
“The point is to make sure we’re on the same page,” I say, pointing to his hat. “You have to take that off.”
He lifts a hand to it, scowling at me, “What? Why?”
“Because in order to give you the MRI, I need you to remove all accessories. That’s what the basket is for. Where you put your watch.”
“I get it because the watch is metal,” he counters, his hand still on the hat. “But this is just a hat. It’s not an accessory. It’s part of the outfit.”
