Page 127 of Coach
“It’s really, really bad.”
“Just breathe,” he said with the gentleness of a parent. “What did you do?”
“I . . . I . . . oh, God.” I sobbed. “I peed on your floor.”
I doubled over, bawling like a baby.
Mateo, no longer sympathetic to my plight, fell onto his side and laughed harder than he had any time that night. His own tears fell freely as he gasped for breath.
“I tried to clean it up, but I think I used a lot of toilet paper. I’m so sorry, Matey. I’ll get you a fresh roll. I promise.”
I was trying to be nice, to apologize, to save what was left of my dignity, but Mateo only laughed harder, louder, his snorts echoing off the now-clean tiles.
Somehow, I recovered before he did, pushing myself to sit with my back against one wall while facing him. He looked up a few times, but each time he did, whatever he saw on my face had him howling all over again. I was glad I could make him happy, but the whole doubling over thing was—
“Shane, I have more toilet paper. It’s all right.” Mateo reached out and cupped my cheek, his eyes laden with tears. “Do you want some cookies now?”
Chapter 40
Mateo
Iwoke to warmth.
Sunlight crept through the slats of the blinds, casting soft stripes across my crimson comforter.
I blinked, my brain foggy from too little sleep and too much alcohol the night before. I rubbed my eyes, blinking a few times, then smacked my lips together to chase away the morning funk in my mouth. It didn’t help.
And then I felt it.
There was a heavy weight against my side, one large arm sprawled across my stomach, with fingers twitching now and then, like even asleep Shane couldn’t stay still. His leg was thrown half across mine, the sheet tangled somewhere around his thigh, leaving an expanse of bare skin pressed against me.
I turned my head carefully, slowly.
And there he was.
Shane Douglas, the walking wall of stoicism and logger charm, completely wrecked in sleep.
His hair was a riot—wild curls shooting off in every direction, a cowlick sprouting atop his head like some broken tiara. His mouth hung open, the faintest snore vibrating from his chest in a sound that was kind of adorable. His brow was furrowed, like even unconscious he was fighting some invisible battle, and his cheek was smushed against the pillow in the most unflattering, uncomposed way imaginable. The other side of his face still held marks from where he’d lay pressed too firmly against the seam of the pillowcase.
He looked a mess.
He looked perfect.
And I wanted to capture that moment, to take a photo in my mind and never forget it.
I smiled, warmth spreading low in my chest, dangerous and bright.
Last night . . .
It all flooded back in a hungover blur. The club, the drive home, Shane losing his shit . . . then his pee . . . then losing it even worse on my bathroom floor. I couldn’t remember ever laughing so much or so hard, certainly not for an entire evening.
And never—not in a million years—could I have predicted Shane would’ve been the man to give methat much amusement. Stoic, stubborn, one-word Shane. Who knew he could be so . . . whatever he’d been?
But more than just the laughs and jokes and drunken silliness, something had cracked open. I’d seen it in his eyes, on his face, in the way he laughed so freely and touched me like his palm belonged against my skin.
Something had changed. I could feel it.
Watching this man—this big, broody, grumbly man—giggle like an idiot in my passenger seat, cry about peeing on my floor, melt when I stroked his hair . . . it had shown me more of him than I think he’d ever let anyone see.
