Page 4 of Sexting the Coach
“It doesn’t,” he grunts out, his eyes meeting mine for a moment before darting away again.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter again, hands shaking as I look him over, vision swimming a bit. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Wolfe, I?—.”
“It’s fine,” Weston says, but it comes out through his teeth.
“Please,” I say, meeting his too-blue eyes. “If you’re hurt, just let me help you.”
“I’mfine,” he says, sitting up and pushing my reaching hands away. The others arrive on the scene, the tips of their shoes covered with blades of grass in my peripheral.
“But—” I try to protest.
“Yougoodman?” Bernie Wright, one of the assistant coaches, asks, standing over us and blocking the sun from shining directly on our faces. Bernie looks like he could be someone’s grandpa, or maybe a mall Santa.“Fine,” Weston says, and I blink at him as Bernie reaches down to help him up. His voice is level, and he actually sounds like everything is fine, despite the pain I saw on his face just a second ago.
“Too bad,” Mabel says, grabbing my arm and hauling me to my feet. “We almost went to state, champ.”
I’m still staring at Weston as he says something casually to the other coaches, laughing and turning, walking toward the cabins.
He was able to keep the pain from his voice so effortlessly. And now, as he hurries back toward the cabins, he almost, almost manages to hide the slightest limp on his right side.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, patting Mabel on the arm. “Cover for me?”
“We’re not even on the same team,” she says.
But I’m already leaving the field, following Weston, itching to get to the bottom of that look on his face.
And maybe itching for something else, too.
Chapter 2
Weston
It hurts like amotherfucker.
The cabins we’re staying in are nice. The Squids administration always splurges for this team building shit at this camp. Our package—the most expensive one money can buy—includes hot springs on the edge of the property, the giant lodge in the center of the camp, and the luxury rooms afforded to the higher ups in the organization.
Now that I’m head coach, that includes me.
My room is nice, and I’m just across the hall from Meyer—the general manager.
I limp past her door, glad she’s still down on the field. Thankful that everyone is preoccupied with the football game, so there’s nobody here to see me hobbling away, moving as quickly as I can to some sort of cover.
But I can’t move very quickly at all, with the pain twisting up my hip and through my lower back like a corkscrew cutting through a wine cork.
I’m doubly thankful that I’ve got my own room. Before, when I was just an assistant coach, I always roomed with Fincher, one of the other assistant coaches.
Back when he didn’t hate my guts.
Slamming through the door to my room, I cross the space, past the king-sized, four-poster bed and to the full-length mirror on the other side.
Outside the window, pine trees rustle happily in the breeze. I can hear whoops and hollers drifting in from the field where the football game is still rolling on without me.
This was supposed to be a chance for us to relax and hang out with everyone before the start of the season. A chance to get to know the new hires, to “mesh” as a group, according to the HR department.
And instead, I’ve spent the entire time trying not to fuck my hip, dealing with Fincher being a passive-aggressive asshole, and avoiding questions about whether or not we’re going to make it to the play-offs this year.
Obviously, it’s in the plan.
It’s always in the plan.
