Page 119 of Coach
Ilivedfor Journey.
Half my shop playlists were Journey.
They were the one damn band that always got me through late nights and long sanding marathons.
For a second, words stuck in my throat.
Then I managed, voice a little too soft, “Yeah. I know ’em.”
As the chorus built, my chest tightened with something that felt too big, too bright, too terrifying to name.
And damn it, Mateo started singing, quiet at first, tentative, as though he wasn’t sure his voice was good enough to be heard. When Steve and the boys kicked into high gear, Mateo shed all his fears and belted at the top of his lungs.
And fuck a rabbit, the boy could sing. On top of everything else, he had a solid voice.
He snuck a peek out the side of an eye and caught me grinning from ear to ear. Like a fucking goofy idiot, I was grinning so wide it hurt.
Before I knew what was happening, my sandpaper voice was mingling with his as we both tried—and failed—to reach the high notes. Mateo’s laughter echoed throughout the car, and for the first time in my life, I heard a sound I liked more than the songs of the great Steve Perry and his band.
God help me—was that what happiness felt like?
I didn’t know because I couldn’t remember feeling anything quite like it.
Long after the song ended and some other band tried to take Journey’s place, I realized my hand was warm. Glancing down, I found Mateo’s palm smothering mine, two fingers entwined, one tapping to the beat of Adam Lavine’s drummer.
I stared, unable to move, unwilling to move lest our hands part and I lose that connection now tethering me to all things Italy. So, unsure what else todo, I watched him drive. His mouth was set in a perpetual smile, and his eyes glittered like a dragon’s hoard of gold. Something expanded in my chest, and I wondered if I might be coming apart at the seams.
“Here we are,” he said, announcing our arrival. I’d been so absorbed in my mental menagerie that I hadn’t caught us turning into a driveway and parking.
Mateo made to pull his hand away, but my fingers gripped, held him tight, refused to let go. He gave me a little squeeze and smiled, locking with my gaze. “If you’re a good boy, I’ll hold your hand in the club, too.”
And just like that, he pulled away and climbed out of the car.
Chapter 38
Mateo
The second we stepped inside, I grinned.
The Laughing Cat wasn’t much to look at—little more than low ceilings, exposed brick walls, black-painted ducts overhead—but it had that perfect divey charm. The smell of beer and fried appetizers hung in the air, mingling with candle wax and the faint scent of too many perfume choices. Tables were packed in tight, small and round, each with a flickering votive candle that barely lit anything. Conversation buzzed low across the room, blending with clinks of glass and the occasional burst of laughter from an already tipsy group of women near the bar. They looked like a bachelorette party, which was perfect, given the comedian du jour.
At the front of the room sprawled the stage. Atop it rose a single mic stand under a bright spotlight, a battered stool off to one side, and a red velvetcurtain drawn open just far enough to frame the brick backdrop. There was no fanfare, no frills, just the performer, the mic, and a few hundred eyes waiting to be entertained.
And there, front and center as promised, was Mike.
He sat alone at a table for three in the first row, nursing a beer with a shit-eating grin already plastered on his face.
“Come on,” I said to Shane, leading our way through the tangle of tables. “Mike’s already plotting. We’d better not give him too much time alone.”
Shane grunted behind me, the sound sending a little zip straight up my spine.
As we approached, Mike stood, ignored me, and opened his arms wide. “Well, well—if it isn’t my favorite lumberjack!”
“Evening, Mike.” Shane smirked and stuck out a hand, but Mike slapped it away with a dramatic flourish. “Pfft. We’re past that now.”
Before Shane could react, Mike grabbed him in a tight hug—then kissed his cheek with an obnoxiously loudmwah!
Shane stiffened, his cheeks reddening and eyes going wide for a half second before an embarrassed laugh slipped out like a silent fart gone wrong.
