Page 230 of Coach
Shane turned and dropped onto a bleacher. “I’ll be here. Take your time.”
I tossed the wooden ball into the air a few inches above my palm as I headed to the locker room. It felt good, better than good. It felt like a piece of Shane in my hands, like the guy had carved out a sliver of himself and handed it to me—like he wanted me to carry a piece of him with me.
The locker room door flew open, almost smackingme in the head because I was too busy staring at my new toy to pay attention. Gabe appeared, hair wet, bag slung over his shoulder. His gaze landed on the ball in my hands. Then he looked up at my face, and past me to where Shane sat across the court. A broad grin spread across his face.
“The non-boyfriend give you something?”
“Not a word, you hear me?”
Gabe’s grin grew. “You’ve kept my secrets. I would never tell yours. Although, silence might have its price.”
I glared at the boy.
“Just kidding. It’s good to see you happy, Coach. You deserve it.”
And with that teenage proclamation, Gabe strode away, leaving me standing in the doorway of the locker room with a wooden basketball cradled in both hands.
Chapter 24
Shane
The gym was empty by the time he came back, just the glow of far-off hallway lights and the faint echo of a final bouncing ball somewhere in the past.
Then Mateo stepped out.
His hair still a little damp, freshly brushed, a slight curl at his temples somehow making him look younger and more dangerous all at once. He wore a fresh shirt—a rich purple one with a golden mustang across the chest like it meant something, and somehow, it suited him better than anything I’d seen.
He walked across the court like it belonged to him, not like a king or a star, just steady and solid, the kind of walk that didn’t ask for attention but always got it.
I stayed frozen, caught somewhere between trying to seem normal and nervously reliving the kiss I’d lefton his forehead like an idiot.
He stopped at the edge of the bleachers, looked up at me with that sideways smile that already lived rent-free in my head, and said, “So. What are you hungry for?”
I wanted to say, “You,” but thankfully my stomach answered before my mouth could.
Instead, I stood and muttered, “Something warm and easy.”
I was neither of those things, but if he asked . . .
His smile widened a little as he shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Why don’t we head back to my place? I’m the best Italian cook in America. I’ve only lostTop Chefin my dreams.”
I hesitated.
His place. His couch. His kitchen. His space.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to. God knew I did. It wasn’t even that I didn’t trust him. It was . . . being inside someone else’s world like that felt too close, too easy to fall into.
I opened my mouth to deflect, but then he flashed me that grin again—the one that made his eyes sparkle just a little, like he was daring me to find a reason to say no.
I swallowed whatever excuse I’d been ready to give and nodded.
“All right,” I said. “But if your pasta’s bad, I’m leaving your texts unread forever.”
He laughed as he turned toward the exit. “You’ll be too busy crying from joy to text anyone.”
I followed him, each step louder than I wanted it to be.
I was so screwed—and for once in my life, I knew it.
