Page 63 of Sexting the Coach
“What’s going on?”
They all turn to look at me when I walk in, but my eyes skip to the presentation board behind them.
Of fucking course.
It’s James Morton up on the screen, his hairy arm thrown around the shoulders of a teen girl. Maybe she’s technically legal, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s a college freshman. It looks like she could be his granddaughter.
Below the picture is an article talking about him, clearly mentioning his last job—coach of the San Francisco Squids. My eyes scan over the words, taking in the summary of the scandal from last year, what Morton has been up to since then. A post from his actual granddaughter, cursing out her grandfather for hooking up with her college roommate.
Is this what people see when they look at me and Elsie? I know Tamra said fans thought the whole thing was cute, but where is the line? Do they think of me as a predator?
“Disgusting,” Bernie swears, startling me as he stops and leans against one of the chairs at the end of the table. “But what does this have to do with us?”
“Like it or not,” Tamra says, scrubbing her hands over her face. “Morton is still associated with this team.” Her eyes shift to me. “Can you talk to Elsie? Get her to answer us? We’re not sure how this whole thing is going to affect our angle with the two of you, but we need to get out in front of it before people run away with it.”
“Right,” I grind out, because what I really want to do is pick up one of these fucking chairs and throw it through a window. It’s not like I’m going to tell Tamra that Elsie hasn’t been answering me, either. “Sure thing.”
“Okay. Great. Sit down gentlemen,” Tamra says, gesturing to the table. “We need to run through some pointers for handling the press, what to say if they bring up this story.”
Bernie and I take a seat, and a few moments later, Fincher and the other coaches show up. I ignore Fincher—after I snapped at him the other night, he’s been staying out of my way, but I’m worried that just looking at him right now is going to piss me the fuck off.
Tamra runs through a presentation on how to handle talking about this. More thanno commentless than even acknowledging his attachment to the team. Thankfully, she doesn’t mention Elsie again for the rest of the meeting.
When the meeting is over, and I stand abruptly, pushing out of the room, Bernie follows me, catching me outside the room and giving me a considerate look.
“Maybe you should take the rest of the day off,” he suggests, his gaze flicking down to the clenched fists at my sides. “Try and cool off a bit, boss.”
“Yeah,” I say, pulling away from him. “Maybe.”
I take Bernie’s advice, and all it does it bite me in the ass.
Rather than heading straight home, I skip my exit and head toward the Gardens. I used to come here a lot when I was younger, when I’d first moved to San Francisco and felt out of place. Back then, I was reading every self-help book I could get my hands on, and they all touted the benefits of being among nature.
Not that it helped much.
I still got injured, still got divorced. The only good thing to come out of it all is the head coach position I currently hold,and now I’m not even happy with that. The thing I’ve wanted since I was a kid, and all it took was a single blond to derail my enjoyment.
Everything feels lifeless with the lack of Elsie in my day-to-day. Like she left and took the sunshine with her.
I walk through the entrance and hold my hand up to the person offering me a map. I’ve been here enough that I don’t need it. The gardens are more than fifty acres, and I spend an hour wandering around, taking in the flowers and exotic plants, forcing myself to slow down and try and work through the rage.
When I first started playing hockey, my coaches were more than happy to hype up that anger, get me to take it out on the other team. But after a while, I realized all that anger was messing with my play. I started finding other ways to work through it.
Right now, the magnolias are just starting to bloom, and I take a seat on a bench, forcing myself to breathe.
I miss Elsie. I wish she was here with me. How is it possible that she came into my life all at once and completely altered it? A year ago, I could have come here without thinking about another person.
Even my divorce with Leda didn’t feel this bad.
As though just the thought of her has summoned her, I turn the corner in the garden and run, face-first, into a bulky man in a black suit, his face set into a stern, sulking frown.
I recognize him. Her lead bodyguard.
“Weston?”
I wince, wishing I’d turned around, run the other way. Because as much as this place feels like it belongs to me, I can’t forget the fact that it was Leda who started bringing me here first. It’s more her place than it is mine. I just assumed that her fame had grown big enough now that she wouldn’t risk going.
“Leda.”
