Page 226 of Coach
“Why don’t you come to the school? We can leave your truck here and ride together.” Mateo said something to one of the kids, then his voice returned to the phone. “Sorry, gotta go before the barbarians destroy my village.”
I chuckled. It wasn’t a laugh—just a grunt of amusement—but it felt good.
“See you there.”
“Ciao.”
I didn’t mean to show up early.
Okay, maybe I did.
Mateo invited me to dinner—something casual, he said, something low-key. He’d said it like it was no big deal, like my heart hadn’t already rearranged itself three times just thinking about it.
He had not invited me to watch his team scrimmage their cross-town rival. I’d decided to show up and watch on my own—and I was unsure whether he would appreciate that move or not.
So yeah, I got there early.
The gym door creaked open under my hand, the smell hitting me first—sweat, old leather, floor polish. It was the kind of smell that made me think of Friday nights and adrenaline, of buzzer shots and echoing sneakers.
Players ran and dribbled and shot. Sneakers squeaked. A referee’s whistle pierced the air loudenough to deafen most any creature.
And Mateo was already coaching.
I slipped in quiet, careful, keeping my boots soft as I climbed the bleachers two steps at a time, settling at the top row behind Mateo’s bench. There were only a smattering of parents sitting in twos and threes, with a few larger groups huddled on the opposite side to cheer the visiting team. No one noticed me.
That was the goal.
More importantly,hedidn’t see me.
Good.
Because I needed a minute.
I hadn’t seen him since the kiss, since that night in the parking lot where I did the most reckless thing I’d done in years and pressed my mouth to the one place on him I thought wouldn’t scare us both too badly.
I’d played it cool afterward and drove away like my insides weren’t still vibrating. But now, I was sitting there with my arms braced on my knees, suddenly nervous in a way that didn’t fit, not for a guy like me.
I didn’t do nerves.
I did structure.
I maintained control.
But Mateo made all that feel like scaffolding over something bigger, and I wasn’t sure I was ready for what lay underneath.
So yeah, I sat still, letting my eyes track him like I was studying blueprints. Watching. Waiting.
Okay, I wasn’t still. My right leg bobbed so fast someone probably thought I was keeping time to some hyper-speed dance remix in my head. I couldn’t decide whether to clasp my fingers together, sit back and let them hang at my sides, or lock them behind my head and lean back against the wall like some too-casual, almost-asleep idiot on the back row of gym class.
I settled for leaning forward, feet on the bleacher in front of me, just like I’d sat a million times while watching my high school team compete. I was a football guy, but that meant our pack of muscled beasts traveled together to support whatever other team wore our colors and battled with an enemy. We went to every game, meet, and contest the school could come up with. And we loved it.
Mateo shouted something to one of his players, a kid who looked like he wanted to vomit in the corner. I was certain the kid’s conditioning wasn’t up to snuff by the way he hunched over desperate for air.
My eyes fixed on Mateo, standing in his coaching box, hands planted on his hips like a disappointed mom discovering her children’s crayon drawing all over her dining room wall.
That’s when my mind kicked into overdrive, hounding me with question after question.
What would he be like with his kids?
