Page 253 of Coach
The next thing I knew, I was in my truck.
Mateo’s headlights were yellow globes in my mirrors, like tiny twin suns, steady and warm. He was right behind me, just like we’d agreed.
“Follow me,” I’d said.
“It’ll be great,” I’d said.
“It’s just a drink,” I’d said.
I just hadn’t figured out where the hell I was taking him.
My hands gripped the steering wheel like it might bolt from under me. I could still hear the echoes of the gym—the shoes squeaking, the refs’ whistles, the way Mateo’s voice cracked through all of it like adamn megaphone forged of fire and espresso.
He was electric.
So damn focused and all business.
And somehow still him—funny, commanding, and grounded.
It was terrifying how drawn to that I was.
I told myself inviting him for a drink had been casual, normal, something people did. Men had beers after long days or victorious conquests, right? It was no big deal.
So why did it feel like my heart was trying to claw its way out of my chest?
I hadn’t had this feeling since . . . hell, maybe ever.
Was this—God help me—joy?
That didn’t sit right. “Joy” felt too light, too soft.
This was jagged and dizzying. It made me want to speed up and slow down at the same time, like someone was pressing my fast-forward and rewind buttons all at once, and all my tape could do was squeal in protest.
Great. I was thinking about cassette tapes while driving to my doom. Just great.
I tried to calm myself, focus on the road.
Lights blurred past.
Mateo stayed behind me, never tailgating yet never lagging, just . . . trusting me to lead.
That did something to my chest, too.
I should’ve turned left. The bar was a few blocks back. We zipped by another restaurant on the right. I missed it, never even thought about slowing or pulling into the lot. My mind was a blur, a whirling dervish of angels and demons forever at war over my hopes and desires, neither of which I chose to acknowledge or allow space on my mental stage.
Until then.
So, I drove on.
And the next thing I knew, we were pulling into my own driveway.
What the hell are we doing here?I asked myself, blinking at my shop before shifting my gaze to the house some fifty paces across the yard. This hadn’t been the plan. We were getting a drink.
You have alcohol inside, a voice, accented in Italian, whispered in my head.
Great, now I was hearing phantom European hotties urging me toward . . . something very dangerous.
I parked, killed the engine, and sat there like a jackass staring at the front of my own house, wondering when the hell I’d decided to bring him into my personal space, my private kingdom, the place I never—and I meannever—let anyone into. Stevie practically lived with me, but she didn’t count. She was Stevie. She was family.
