Page 31 of Sexting the Coach
I stare at her as she lifts her knee, holding it at a ninety-degree angle. She’s in a pair of soft blue scrubs I’ve seen her wear in here before, and the gentle taper around her hips is doing something stupid to my chest.
It’s just a pair of scrubs—I saw Leda in scrubs all the time when she was a guest star on the medical drama show—but there’s something different about this. How comfortable Elsie looks in them, the little tear by the pocket that shows how often she’s in this outfit. The fact that they’re practically formed to her body.
“Weston?” she asks, and when I tear my eyes up to hers, it’s obvious that I’ve been staring at her.
“Right,” I say, doing what she says, lifting my leg, ignoring the slight pain that twinges with each movement. We continue on like that, with me going through the motions, following her example, doing my best to ignore the fission of her little touches.
Her hair is in two braids today. They rest on her chest, just above her breasts, tied off with little blue ties I want to tug on, unravel.
“Over here,” she says, and I follow her to yet another corner of the room. “You’re just going to want?—”
But when she reaches up to gesture to something on the wall, her hand catches the bill of my hat, and I feel it spin up, flipping off my head like a strong gust of wind has caught it.
“Shit,” I turn, placing one hand on the top of my head and reaching for the hat, which lies next to Elsie’s shoe.
She’s laughing, and manages to snag it before I can, turning it and looking at it, before meeting my eyes. “What’s with the hat? You’re like, always wearing one.”
“No,” I say, forcing a smile and reaching for it again, “I’m not. Just give it back.”
Something sparkles through her gaze, “Oh, you want it back?”
“Elsie,” I laugh darkly, shaking my head and walking toward her as she backs up, hiding the hat behind her back. “You don’t want to play this game with me. You’re not going to win.”
Her smile grows. In the dim light of the PT room, her pupils look huge, swallowing her irises. Her eyes—brown like honey or maple syrup, like something that could drip, shining in the light—glint with mirth.
“Oh, really?” Elsie teases, raising her eyebrows. “What are you going to do about it?”
As much as I’m enjoying the playful banter, I hate not having my hat on. Elsie is right. I’ve been wearing it since the first timeI looked in the mirror and saw something I really, really didn’t like.
When I lunge forward, thinking I’ll be able to quickly grab the hat from her hands, I’m not quick enough, and Elsie sees what it is I’m trying to hide.
“Weston,” she says, dropping the hat to her side, looking at me with wide eyes. “Are you—is that why you wear the hat all the time?”
I glance to the side, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, annoyance rising inside me when I see the silver hair running along the top of my head.
When I was a kid, my mother used to say I should be grateful—that other families had the baldness gene. But when my dad went silver, my mom dutifully booked him appointments at the salon once a month to touch up his dye job.
Not knowing how to dye my own hair, and definitely not planning on going to my normal barber for something like this, I’d decided the best way to hide my new streaks of silver would be to wear my hat outside the house.
Clearly, that was a mistake.
“Yeah,” I grunt, taking her hesitation as a chance to reach forward and take the hat from her hand. She doesn’t move or try to snatch it back. I brush it off and turn it around, tucking it onto my head. “Not a big deal.”
For a second, we stand there staring at each other, and I’m not a huge fan of how my heart throws itself against my rib cage, like it’s trying to escape the moment.
I can’t help from thinking about that text she sent, all those months ago at the team-building camp.
I’d like to do a lot more than just check you out next time.
Would she have sent that text if she knew about this? About the fact that my hair is going to go from a simple salt and pepperto full silver in a matter of years. Then I’ll look like my father, and women aren’t going to think of me the same.
I don’t think of myself the same. After my hip injury, every year has felt like a swift decline. Gray hair, aching body—each passing month another opportunity to lose something that used to make me feel like myself.
Soon, I won’t even be able to skate.
“Weston.” Elsie’s voice draws me out of my thoughts, and I look up to find her stepping toward me. My breath catches in my throat when she reaches up slowly, like she’s trying to befriend an alley cat, her movements gentle and sure.
When she pinches the bill of the hat between her fingers, I know what’s coming, but for some reason, I’m powerless to stop her.
