Page 223 of Coach
She barreled forward because . . . of course she did. “Mateo, you are a basketball coach, correct? A former collegiate player, yes?”
I sat back, unsure where this was leading, feeling abit like the kid in a horror movie standing at the top of the darkened stairs while deciding whether or not to take the plunge.
“Yes to both,” I answered.
Sisi leaned forward, her elbows planted on the table, chin in her hands. “Why are you acting so not confident? You have never stumbled with your words or sat while we ran over someone, back and forth, again and again. You never let us ram you with the bus.”
“I think he likes being the ram-er, not the ram-ee,” Omar offered.
Matty did a little shimmy thing, like he was cold and excited at the same time, then gripped Omar’s arm like a horny beast marking its territory. “Ram-ee, I love it. Baby, you can be my ram-er anytime.”
“Focus, people!” Sisi snapped. “This is not a sexual conversation . . . yet.”
I groaned.
Sisi continued, “This is about why Mateo has folded in on himself in the face of a brusque—if tasty—woodworker. Out with it, our little rotini noodle. Inquiring minds and all.”
“Rotini noodle?” I couldn’t suppress a grin.
Sisi shrugged. “It was the best I could do on short notice. Now answer or I’ll switch from pasta tocheeses.”
“Like ‘from-under’ cheese?” Matty asked, batting his eyelashes as he did.
“Ew.” I scowled. “No. There will be no ‘taint truffle.’ None whatsoever!”
“Taint truffle?” Sisi clapped through a snorty laugh. “That’s awesome. I may get you a T-shirt with that on the back, like a softball jersey or something. That’s priceless.”
My head banged the wooden back of the booth again.
Then I surrendered to the question, since it would not go away on its own.
“I don’t know,” I said, my voice shrinking into the tiny ball I felt like in that moment. “Shane is just so . . . so big and strong and . . . stern? I mean, other than his muscles and abs and chiseled jaw, he’s not my normal type.”
“Other than all the hot parts? What’s left?” Matty asked.
I rolled my eyes. “He’s just so weird. That’s not what I mean. He’s not weird; he’s reserved, like stone statue reserved. I think I’ve seen him smile twice now, and neither of those was on purpose. And shit, he can’t seem to say more than two words without needing to take a break. It’s as though communicating is torture.”
“And this draws you to him?” Omar asked, his tone contemplative rather than teasing.
“I . . . well . . . maybe. I don’t know.” I ran a hand through my hair and stared at the center of the table, avoiding every gaze focused on me. “I see something there, something underneath all that hardness—”
Matty giggled.
Omar elbowed him. Sisi grinned and winked, sharing a look with Matty.
I ignored them. “He’s a nice guy, and there’s something about him that just . . . just makes me want to see him again. I can’t explain it.”
“But why does all that make you turn so shy and babbly and, I don’t know, like Mike?” Sisi asked.
I grinned at the reference to my favorite ginger. He was a disaster when he got flustered, and it was adorable.
It was my turn to shrug. “He just makes me nervous. Shit, I’ve coached in the State Championships, played in the NCAA Tournament three times. I’ve felt pressure most people will never understand. Why does this one guy make me feel like a six-year-old who’s afraid of the dark?”
Omar’s smile was gentle, his eyes kind. “Just be you, Mateo. You’re one of the most amazing guys I know. If he doesn’t see that, he’s not worth your time.”
“Hear, hear,” Matty said, clapping the fingertips of one hand on the palm of the other. “What my sexy little Brit said.”
Sisi, for once in her existence, remained quiet.
