Page 191 of Coach
Shane took a sip of his beer as though he was buying time. His fingers wrapped around the glass and twitched, thumping a rhythm I couldn’t decipher.
I let a few seconds pass, not wanting to come ontoo strong.
“So,” I said. “What did little Shane want to be when he grew up?”
He exhaled through his nose. “Not this.”
“Furniture guy wasn’t on your vision board?”
“No vision board.”
“Not even a sketch pad?”
He shook his head, eyes on his glass, avoiding my gaze. “Didn’t think that far ahead.”
I smiled and leaned forward on my elbow. “You don’t say.”
He glanced up. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“I teach teenagers. Interrogating suspects is my love language.”
He huffed something that might’ve been a laugh and scratched the back of his neck.
I waited.
Eventually, slowly, he spoke. “I grew up in the Midwest, in Ohio, in a one-stoplight town surrounded by a lotta corn.”
“That explains the flannel-forward fashion sense,” I said.
He shot me a glare. “We didn’t all wear flannel.”
“But you did . . . still do.”
Another pause.
“Yeah.”
That was progress, I supposed.
“What about family?” I asked. “Brothers? Sisters? Are you close?”
“Yes, and”—he shrugged—“not really.”
And just like that, the door slammed shut again. What was this guy’s deal?
I tried to keep my face neutral, but inside I was cataloguing every word, every silence, every deflection. Shane didn’t just keep his cards close to his chest—he laminated them and locked them in a fireproof safe. The guy could make “I’m fine” sound like classified intel worthy of a death sentence if shared.
Still, I’d never been one to give up.
The waiter reappeared like a poorly timed punchline. “Y’all ready to order?”
I smiled up at him. “Yeah. I’ll do the grilled chicken sandwich and a side salad with raspberry vinaigrette.”
The waiter turned to Shane.
“Burger. Medium rare. Fries.”
“Fries,” I repeated. “That screams bold and classic for the man of mystery.”
