Page 136 of Coach
“Ah,” I said. “Every man needs a solid weenie.”
Jeremiah chuckled. “Damn straight.”
Before Jeremiah could turn and stride away, Mateo stepped up behind me, his voice warm. “You don’t have anywhere to be on Christmas Eve?”
Jeremiah hesitated, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets. “Nah. It’s all good . . . whatever.”
Mateo wrapped his arms around me from behind and rested his chin on my shoulder. I didn’t need him to speak to know what he was thinking.
I grinned and whispered, “Go on. I know you want to.”
“You’re coming with us,” he said.
Jeremiah blinked and crossed his arms, which was unfair given how the motion made his biceps turn into boulders. I wondered how his shirts survived the constant pressure.
“I’m what?”
Mateo was already grabbing his coat. “It’s a big dinner. The whole gang’s going to Mrs. H’s. You’re family now—you deliver half Shane’s life.”
“Mrs. H?” Jeremiah’s head cocked. “You sure? I don’t wanna crash.”
“You’re not crashing. You’re my reinforcements.” I clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Besides, it’ll be better than eating frozen pizza alone.”
“How’d you know I had leftover pizza on the menu tonight?” He grinned, his eyes a little brighter. “Well . . . if you’re twisting my arm. You were my last stop anyway.”
“Consider your arm twisted,” Mateo said. “Great. Let’s go.”
“Hang on,” I said, holding up a palm. “He can’t show up in his work shirt. They’ll give him shit for not being dressed for the holiday, then give us shit for showing off his arms. Matty will be relentless.”
“And Sisi would be unchained,” Mateo agreed. “Come in. Let us find you a shirt. There’s got to be something that’ll fit and look like Santa threw up on it. All Shane owns is flannel.”
Jeremiah grunted. “I did notice that.”
“Hey!” I protested.
Jeremiah held up both palms. “Don’t shoot. You look good in old-people-lost-in-the-woods clothes. It suits you.”
“Oh, he’s going to fit in just fine,” Mateo said through a laugh.
Once Jeremiah was fitted in a Mateo-approvedflannel that only hugged his arms and chest a bit less than his work shirt, we loaded up and headed out.
Nerves or not, one thing was clear:
This was what the holidays were supposed to feel like.
Chapter 44
Mateo
Mrs. H’s house was already glowing by the time we pulled up. Every window flickered with light from candles dancing on the inside sill, a massive wreath crowned the door, and a cheerful (and slightly crooked) inflatable Santa bounced on the porch like it was halfway through a bender.
“Brace yourselves, boys,” I said, grinning as I glanced at Shane and Jeremiah. “This is not a house for the faint of heart.”
Jeremiah chuckled from the back seat. “Are you sure I should be here? I can Uber—”
“Too late,” Shane said, calm as ever. “You’re family now, which means you’re fucked—and not in the tingly way, either.”
I caught the twitch of a smile on Jeremiah’s face before we piled out and headed up the walk, arms full of dishes and bottles.
