Page 155 of Coach
“Okay, he was right. But there’s nothing straight about how I’m going to fuck you.”
“Okay,ewwagain. Moving on,” Matty said, waving his glass in the air.
I smiled at Mateo. “Mateo Ricci, we have a long road ahead of us, but I want to walk it together. Willyou . . .”
“Say it!” Omar shouted.
“On your knee!” Sisi added.
I looked over Mateo’s shoulder and flicked her a bird.
Everyone laughed, including Mateo.
“I’m not proposing,” I whispered, as much for myself as for Mateo. He sucked in a breath and blew it out. I wasn’t sure if relief or disappointment filled his eyes. “That day may come, but I want to enjoy each one leading to it, too.”
Mateo nodded.
“I guess what I’m saying is . . . I’m not sure of a lot of things, but I’m sure I want you, Mateo. I want you by my side, no matter what. Will you be my boyfriend?”
Mateo’s face lit up, and laughter tumbled out of his mouth.
“What? What’s funny?”
Mateo set down his glass, stepped forward, and wrapped his arms around my neck before saying loud enough for everyone to hear, “We’ve been boyfriends for a while now. Thanks for keeping up, big guy.”
And just like that, our tear-filled moment was shattered in the most classic Shane-Mateo way possible. It wasn’t a perfect moment. I didn’t believe insuch things. But, like the two of us, it was perfectly imperfect.
And the best part?
I knew we were just getting started.
Chapter 1
Mateo
It only took me a hot minute of coaching to realize teenage boys were a terrifying combination of cockiness, hormones, and zero sense of personal space. Our annual varsity tryouts magnified those qualities, slathering them in testosterone, athletic endorphins, and a disgusting layer of sweat.
And I loved every second of it.
I stood at center court, clipboard in hand, whistle around my neck, watching twenty-some high schoolers pretend they knew the difference between a basketball and their ass. The gym echoed with the sound of bouncing balls, squeaking shoes, and low murmurs of boys hyping themselves up like they were about to storm Normandy instead of, you know, run a simple weave drill.
On the top row of the bleachers, Jessica perched like a queen surveying her queendom, twirling a strand of blonde hair around her index finger, readyto pounce on whichever breathing male emerged as the next star point guard. She was many things; subtle wasn’t one of them.
God bless her overconfident little heart.
“All right, let’s tighten it up!” I barked, my heavy Italian accent causing a few of the boys to squint as they hung on every word. Others whispered and jibed, as though their fearless leader hadn’t just spoken.
I shoved the clipboard under one arm and clapped my hands. Instantly, the chatter died out.
Good.
Respect and fear, Machiavelli’s perfect mix.
Okay, the medieval political operative was referring more to love versus fear for a king or prince, but his point applied, especially where herding a pack of willful teenage boys was concerned.
I adjusted my clipboard and raised my voice. “Mason, Tyler, Jayden, Isaiah—you’re up. Grab a ball and line up behind the cones.”
They scrambled like puppies after a Milk-Bone, desperate not to look slow. I waited a moment, then blew the whistle and stepped back, my arms crossed, eyes sharp.
