Page 185 of Coach
Click.
I tossed the phone onto the bed and sighed like a man who’d just seen war.
Then I realized we hadn’t solved the “what was I going to wear” problem.
“Well, shit,” I grumbled as I grabbed my phone off the comforter and punched Stevie’s face again. Not literally. Her phone face.
“Miss me already?” she asked.
“Fuck, no. Now, just tell me what to wear.”
“For the love of God, no flannel.”
“Already tossed across the room.”
She giggled. My butch, bike-riding, tattooed-and-pierced vampire Lesbitarian actually giggled. “What about that black shirt? You never wear that, but I bet you look good in black.”
“It has paint on the bottom and on some of the buttons. I think it was beige or faded blue something.”
“Well, that fucks the all-black idea right up the ass.”
I groaned.
“Do you have any white T-shirts that aren’t stretched at the neck or torn or have sweat stains or paint on the bottom? Like, clean white T-shirts?”
I stepped to my chest of drawers and began rifling through stacks of white T’s. I had lots ofthose—though it took me a solid three minutes to find one meeting her very particular description.
“Got it. What goes with a white T-shirt?”
The sound of the phone dropping from her hand and smacking the floor was followed by more laughter, this time far less controlled or contained than her prim little giggles. The muffled sound of her retrieving her phone was followed by heavy breathing and a failed attempt to rein in snickers.
“What? It’s a fair question. I can’t wear a towel with a T-shirt, not a white one when the shirt’s white, too, right? That’d be too much white, even at Wimbledon.”
“Was that a serious question?” she wheezed.
“Uh, no. Of course not.”
It had been. What did I know about snooty tennis tournaments?
“Throw on the cleanest, most paint-free jeans you’ve got—and please, please, please wear a belt. Just make sure your shirt is clean, wrinkle-free, and a size too small, so it clings to your muscles. I’m fairly certain those were what won you the date in the first place.”
“Not my sparkling personality or cunning wit?”
She howled again.
“Man, that almost hurt.”
“If you had feelings, I would believe it,” shesnarked.
“Fuck you.”
“Go get dressed . . . then get laid. The rest of humanity needs you in a better mood.”
Chapter 11
Mateo
Bravos was already buzzing when I walked in—dim lighting, clinking glasses, exposed brick, and the faint hum of jazz-funk covers playing way too earnestly over the speakers. Lots of reclaimed wood, Edison bulbs, and enough Braves memorabilia to make any die-hard cry. It was the kind of place where you could wear jeans and still feel like you were doing something cool with your life.
