Page 287 of Coach
I grunted agreement. “I need to get back to the shop. Deadline’s this week.”
There was no disappointment or surprise on Mateo’s face. He didn’t look at me with puppy dog eyes or beg for our time to continue. He simply stood, walked around the table, and planted a juicy kiss on my lips.
“The regular season kicks into gear this week, so I’ll be a little hard to nail down.”
My gaze warmed. “I know how to nail you.”
He slapped my shoulder. “I’ll text you later.”
With one last kiss that lingered so long I’d likely think about it all afternoon, Mateo strode through my den and out the door, leaving me sitting at the table and wondering how that man—how any man—could upend my day with a bag of General Tso’s chicken and Crab Rangoon.
Chapter 42
Mateo
Basketball season hit like a freight train.
One second, I was easing through October, juggling light practices, scrimmages, and easy schedules. The next, I was living out of the gym, clipboard glued to my hand, my voice hoarse from shouting plays three nights a week.
Every Tuesday, Friday, and Saturday meant games—home or away, it didn’t matter. If it had hardwood and a scoreboard, we were there.
And between games? Practice.
Monday, film sessions.
Wednesday, drills until my kids hated me.
Thursday, walk-throughs and light scrimmages.
Sunday, recovery and conditioning for anyone who dared step foot in my gym.
November blurred past in a flurry of late nights and adrenaline. There were days I swore I saw moreof the mustang logo on the gym floor than my own apartment.
And I loved it. God, I loved it.
This year’s team was good, one of the best I’d ever coached. Most of my guys were seniors or juniors, making me wonder if next year would be a letdown after what was shaping up to be a real title run, but I’d worry about that later, after we went to State, after we hefted the trophy that represented the pinnacle of our sport. I was sure that’s where we were headed—as sure as any coach could ever be before the games were played.
We only dropped one game in November and early December—a fluke loss on an away court with a brutal reffing crew and three players sick with the flu. Otherwise, we were dominant, fast and tight on defense. We played like a unit, like a band of brothers who’d grown up on the hardwood together.
And that mattered.
But the whirlwind that was my season also made dating . . . complicated.
Time was our enemy.
And Shane and I were still figuring it out.
He continued to open up, to talk more, to let me see the somewhat softer side of the iron-hewn god that was my sort-of boyfriend. We hadn’t labeled ourselves beyond “dating,” the word he’dunceremoniously used in his awkward proposal those months ago.
We texted constantly—well, as constantly as Shane texted anyone, which meant a lot of short, to-the-point messages and the occasional photo of something he was working on. Half the time I didn’t know whether I wanted to kiss my phone or throw it across the room just to get him to say more.
I don’t remember when he learned his phone had a camera, but one night, as I was nearly passed out on the couch following a long overtime win, my phone buzzed. I flicked the screen to life and was greeted by a veiny, thick mushroom squeezed tight by meaty fingers.
I nearly came in my shorts just looking at it.
That started a tradition. Any night we slept apart—which was most of them during the season—we traded naughty pics as a way of saying, “I’m thinking about you . . . and playing with myself.”
Despite me snapping images of my face, kissing him, smiling at the camera, waving into the screen, he never snapped his face, only his outsized member that always seemed to smile up at me with its tiny, crooked grin.
