Page 45 of Sexting the Coach
“So, if we’re sharing as friends,” I try, as she hands me an exercise band. “Does that mean you’re going to tell me about your brother?”
She freezes, her eyes flicking to mine like a deer caught in the headlights. “What about him?”
The look on her face is enough for me to know that there’s something going on there, but there’s also the thing she said about the title of her autobiography. About the painting her brother made for her, that Hattie and Mabel repaired.
How she dances away from the subject each time her brother comes up. Like now.
“So—what does he do?” I ask, tipping my head at her as I start to pull on the bands, repeating the same movements I’ve been doing for several weeks. For the first time, I realize it doesn’t actually hurt as much as it did the first time—progress.
Elsie opens her mouth, shuts it again, “I’m not really sure. We don’t talk much.”
My eyebrows shoot up. It’s hard for me to imagine Elsie holding a grudge against anyone, especially her own sibling. “Damn. What did he do to you?”
Her face goes slightly pale, “I mean—nothing. Actually, I’m pretty surehe’smad atme.”
“What do you mean, pretty sure?”
She shrugs one shoulder, touches my knee in a silent directive to fix my posture. “We don’t really…talk. In my family.”
This is something she and I might have in common. Though my disconnect from my family just comes from how different my life is now, how each time I come for the holidays, there are more and more things separating us.
When I married Leda, my parents acted like I was engaged to an alien, rather than a movie star. Small town folk not interested in the fuss and glamor associated with the spotlight.
While I’m thinking about my family, about Elsie, we finish our session, and Elsie starts to pack up. I pause, biting my tongue for a moment as my hip starts to throb. I want to talk to her about last night—I get the sense that there’s a disconnect here somewhere, but I don’t know how to approach it.
So, instead, I clear my throat and turn back to the other topic at hand. “He’s not my brother, and I know how hard it can be to be the first one to talk. But, for what it’s worth—a conversation might go a long way for the two of you.”
Elsie pauses, holds my gaze for a moment, then nods. I might think she’s completely disregarded the advice, but I see the corners of her lips turn down. She’s thinking about it. Considering it.
And maybe that has to be enough for now.
“Hey, man,” Harrison Clark reaches out and slides his hand into mine, and I suppress the fan boy inside me that’s practically foaming at the mouth. “Nice to see you again.”
It’s a weird thing, in professional sports, to be constantly confronted with your hero. Harrison was just at the top of his game when I was graduating high school, looking at my pick of college programs. He was the guy I looked up to, breaking records and playing the game with a sort of flair that I appreciated.
And, even better, he played for the Blue Crabs. As a Boston kid through and through, I bought his jersey before he even suited up for his first game. I knew he was going to be good, and I was right.
Then, the first time we played against each other—even though we weren’treallythat far apart in years—the league painted it as a rivalry of generations. It was fun playing against him, and though I’d always held out hope that he and I might end up on the same team, he retired before that could happen. He always treated me like a little brother, a friendly sort of competition that not a lot of guys could pull off back then.
Now, he looks his age, with that silver hair Elsie mentioned. He’s embraced it, wearing it proudly, and for a second, it makes me wonder if I could do that, too. There’s also a tattoo peeking out from under his right sleeve. It’s not like I’m fanatic about the guy, but if I had to guess, I’d imagine the tattoo has something to do with his recently-born first child. Maybe their name, or birthday.
“You as well,” I say, giving his hand a firm shake and stepping back. The ref says something, and we nod along. As we break away from one another, Harrison catches my eye.
“Congrats on getting that head coaching spot,” he says, eyes flicking to the bench.
“Thanks,” I say, dipping my head, wondering if he’s aware of the tension over on my side of the arena. Fincher hasn’t been quiet about his displeasure, and it’s embarrassing how easy it is to pick up on. Clark had a whole drama last year with a player who went missing—maybe the guy could give me some advice. “Honestly, I’d be thrilled to get a couple of pointers from you.”
I don’t mean to say it out loud, but it comes out, and Harrison raises his eyebrows, laughing and clapping me on the back, “Any time,” he says, good-naturedly, “except for now. No offense, but I’m not about to coach you on how to take me down.”
“Fair,” I laugh, already buzzing with the fact that he saidany time. I would make time to get pointers fromHarrison Clark. “I’m gonna hold you to that, man.”
When I get back over to my bench, I’m re-energized and ready to coach this game. Our guys line up, Daugherty hunkering down for the opening face-off. The Crabs and Squids are pretty evenly matched, with the league marketing this game as the sea creatures from either coast—Blue Crabs in Boston, and the Squids here in San Francisco.
Daugherty wins the face-off, the crack of sticks and slice of skates cutting through the cheers ringing out through the arena. It’s always loud here, but tonight it feels even more so, the crowd—which is mostly Squids colors, but with a surprising amount of Crabs blue mixed in—rowdier than ever.
We get into the swing of things, and to my credit, I only have the urge to look up at Elsie a handful of times. Hockey is one of the few things that’s been able to get her out of my head, and Itry to sink into that feeling, focusing on our play, shouting to the players, communicating with the other coaches.
Our goalie—Toney Proctor—is having a knockout game, blocking shots even I would have assumed a lost cause. We end the second period on a block from him, which keeps us firmly in the lead—just one point over the Crabs.
