Page 132 of Coach
“Jeremiah’s been my guy for over a year. He flirts a lot, but he’s harmless. Good guy. Dumb as a box of rocks, but pretty to look at.”
“Flirty didn’t cover what I just saw. He’sintoyou,” Mateo said. “I can’t blame him. You’re sexy. He’s hot. You’re both young. Well, you’re relatively young.”
“Fuck you,” I said, chuckling. “Jer really is a good guy, but I don’t think he’s the dating type. This is Atlanta, and he looks, well, like he looks. I can’t imagine he’d want to slow his roll long enough to get to know a guy. You know? Plus, I prefer my dates to be able to, well, talk like an adult. Jer is sweet, but—”
“So judgy,” Mateo teased. “When you describe him like that, he reminds me of you. And with arms like that, I’m surprised the men of Atlanta aren’t following him around like a line of baby ducks.”
“Right.” I nodded. “Hey . . . wait. He reminds you of me? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He might be sweet with a heart of gold and be pining for his Prince Charming, his sawdust-covered Prince Charming, if I read the room right.”
“No!” I said a little too forcefully. “No. He’s offered. I mean, not in so many words, but he’s made it pretty clear that we could, you know. He was flirty, okay, but Jer’s . . . not my type.”
Mateo began emptying the Chinese, spreading little cartons all over my table.
“And whatisyour type, Shane Douglas?” he asked, a wry smile parting his lips.
“Let me get cleaned up, and I’ll answer that. Just know, I’m more a man of action than words.”
Mateo glanced up, teeth flashing. “Oh, I know.”
While Mateo finished laying out lunch, I cleaned off in the bathroom and changed into a worn T-shirt I’d had for years. It was soft, fit a little loose, and smelled clean, so I figured it would do despite the hole in the left armpit.
Lunch was subdued. My hard-on had faded, and Mateo didn’t do anything overtly sexy to make it reappear. We talked of nothing—and everything. Mateo asked question after question, never interrupting, nodding as I tried to hold back but failed. There was no refusing the man and his deep brown eyes. By the time the last egg roll vanished, I think I’d spoken more words than I had in the past month, and I was mentally drained.
“I love Chinese food,” Mateo said, sitting back and patting his belly.
I grunted agreement. “I need to get back to the shop. Deadline’s this week.”
There was no disappointment or surprise on Mateo’s face. He didn’t look at me with puppy dog eyes or beg for our time to continue. He simply stood, walked around the table, and planted a juicy kiss on my lips.
“The regular season kicks into gear this week, so I’ll be a little hard to nail down.”
My gaze warmed. “I know how to nail you.”
He slapped my shoulder. “I’ll text you later.”
With one last kiss that lingered so long I’d likely think about it all afternoon, Mateo strode through my den and out the door, leaving me sitting at the table and wondering how that man—how any man—could upend my day with a bag of General Tso’s chicken and Crab Rangoon.
Chapter 42
Mateo
Basketball season hit like a freight train.
One second, I was easing through October, juggling light practices, scrimmages, and easy schedules. The next, I was living out of the gym, clipboard glued to my hand, my voice hoarse from shouting plays three nights a week.
Every Tuesday, Friday, and Saturday meant games—home or away, it didn’t matter. If it had hardwood and a scoreboard, we were there.
And between games? Practice.
Monday, film sessions.
Wednesday, drills until my kids hated me.
Thursday, walk-throughs and light scrimmages.
Sunday, recovery and conditioning for anyone who dared step foot in my gym.
