Page 53 of Coach
“I—I’m here for trivia night,” I stammered.
He leaned forward on the bar, biceps bulging in ways that violated safety codes. “You early or just anxious?”
“Both probably. It’s kind of a date, too. Second one. New guy. You know?”
“Cute.” Todd grinned. “We don’t get the nervous academic type in this early. You gonna puke on me, teach?”
“No! God—no,” I said, even as my stomach considered filing for divorce.
He slid a frosty pint of something amber across the bar. “Drink this. It’ll help.”
“I didn’t order—”
“You looked like you needed it. First beer’s free if you show up alone and have resting panic face and an accent that makes me crave pasta.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is now. House rules.” He winked. “Drink up, cutie. You’re in Jockstraps now. Ain’t no shame, just games.”
I took a cautious sip—and choked.
“Ah,” Todd said. “Forgot to mention it’s an IPAbrewed in-house by our drag queen in residence. She calls it ‘Daddy Issues.’”
I coughed violently into my elbow. “It tastes like citrus and socks one of my players left in the locker room all season.”
“She’d be thrilled to hear that.” Todd smirked, somehow making even that tiny gesture sexy.
I tried to recover some of my dignity—which was hard, given that behind me a TV was showing synchronized swimming set to “WAP.” I settled onto a stool at the far end of the bar and sipped my Daddy Issues like it might kill me quickly if I was lucky.
Todd followed me down, tossing a bar rag over his bare, broad shoulder. “What’s with this date?”
“Uh—”
“Blind date?”
“No.”
“Grindr thing?”
“Definitely not.”
He grinned. “So . . . a crush.”
I hesitated.
“Ha! Nailed it. They should give us bartenders some sort of psych license.”
I buried my face in the beer, wishing Todd would shimmy his hot tush away and let me drown my fears in peace.
And, of course, that’s when the committee in mybrain convened.
Inner Mateo #1: You invited Shane. You’re an idiot, an absolute romantic moron.
Inner Mateo #2: Shane builds furniture with his bare hands and broods like it’s a full-time job. He’s not ready for this. He doesn’t want romance or laughter or, hell, people.
Inner Mateo #3 (Drama Queen Edition): He’s going to walk in, see a shirtless man in a jockstrap doing body shots off a dartboard champion, and leave you here to die alone. Possibly of shame.
I sighed, staring into the foam.
