Page 44 of Sexting the Coach
When I woke up, though, I quickly saw how much of an idiot I’d been the night before, thinking she and I could ever get away with casual sex. The look on her face was like she’d made a mistake, so I’d filled in the rest, not wanting to hear it come from her mouth.
Besides, I meant what I said. It would be better for both of us to avoid getting physical.
No matter how filthy my thoughts have been about her since getting a taste of what it’s like to have her in my bed.
Now, I jump when the door to the PT room swings open, pulling me out of my thoughts. Elsie walks in, wearing her team polo and a pair of tan slacks. It takes everything in me not to look her up and down. Not to think of a million positions we could try in this room.
“You’re here,” she says, her eyebrows raising.
“You said seven,” I say, flicking my eyes toward the clock.
“Yeah, but I thought—” she clears her throat, looks up toward the ceiling. “I guess I thought that things would be weird between us. So, you might not want to…?”
I bottle up everything I’m feeling for her, shove it somewhere deep down inside of me, and crack a completely unaffected smile in her direction. “I don’t feel weird—do you feel weird?”
Something flashes over her face, then I catch her buying it.
“Oh, yeah,” she says, laughing and pushing her hair out of her face. “I mean—I did this morning, but it’s not a big deal. I mean, we’re friends, right?”
“Right.” It’s a big deal to me. But I’m not going to let her catch on to that. “Friends.”
Elsie dives right into the treatment, running me through stretches and exercises, marking down details on my progress.
“Okay, so,” she says, five minutes later, lifting her eyes to mine. “Since we’re friends, are you going to tell me about what’s going on with that assistant coach?”
I raise an eyebrow at her, “What do you mean?”
“Mike Fincher,” she says, sounding exasperated. “The one who’s constantly undermining you.”
“Right,” I grunt when a ripple of pain rolls down from my hip and into my leg. “Well, the short story is that Fincher and I were friends last year, and now he hates my guts.”
“Because you got the head coaching job?” Elsie asks, shaking her head.
“I mean, yeah—guy doesn’t get it. And in some ways, it doesn’t make sense. I’m younger than him, less experience, less seniority.”
“But you’re a better coach,” Elsie says, which makes me laugh.
“And how would you know?”
“Than Fincher?” she quirks an eyebrow at me over her clipboard. “Because he’s the kind of person who tries to undermine others. He clearly doesn’t actually care about the team’s performance more than his own ego, or he wouldn’t be constantly scheming against you now.”
“Scheming is a strong word.”
“Oh, really? What do you call bursting in here all the time? It’s like he’s desperate to find out there’s something wrong with you.”
“Oh,isthere something wrong with me?” I ask, and I realize too late that we’re flirting, and I’m leaning in closer to her, myeyes dropping to her neck. What I wouldn’t give to get my mouth on her again.
There are a million ways I want to touch Elsie Montgomery, and just not enough time or space for it.
Maybe in another life.
“No,” she says, seeming to shake herself loose and step away from me, swallowing. “No, there’s not. You’re injured, but you’re still the best coach in the NHL.”
I cross my arms, shooting her an arrogant smile, “Oh, wow, really? Even better than Harrison Clark?”
She gives me a cheeky grin in turn, “I saidbestcoach, not best-lookingcoach.”
I roll my eyes, ignoring the streak of jealousy that courses through me. I know she’s joking, but it doesn’t stop me from wanting to say something like,you thought I was pretty good-looking last night.
