Page 55 of Coach
Omar blinked. “He said yes to you bringing him here?”
Matty placed a hand over his heart. “He’s braver than the Marines.”
“He’s hot?” Omar asked the only question most gay men cared about.
“Hot in that broody, emotionally constipated carpenter way,” Matty agreed. “Like if a growl were a man.”
“Like if Ron Swanson had tattoos and sad eyes,” I quipped.
Matty clapped his fingertips together. “Exactly! And muscles. Do you think he has a hairy chest? I bet he does.”
“Stop objectifying him,” I hissed, glancing toward the door.
“Puhleeeease.” Matty rolled his eyes. “If you didn’t want us to ask, you wouldn’t have texted ‘I want to climb him like a jungle gym’ three days ago.”
“That was private,” I grumbled.
“That was a group chat,” Matty countered.
“It was a moment of weakness,” I said, then buried my face in my hands.
Omar leaned in, voice softer, and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Are you nervous?”
“No,” I lied.
“You’re sweating,” he said, pulling his hand back and staring at his palm as though it came away covered in blood.
“I’m a coach. Ialwayssweat!”
“You’re vibrating like a chihuahua on Red Bull,” Matty said cheerfully. “And you polished your glasses.”
Todd set down their drinks and leaned on the bar, amused. “This Shane guy better be worth the therapy you’re about to need.”
Matty raised his shot. “To crusty dreamboats and the fools who love them!”
Omar clinked glasses with him. “Amen.”
Todd hefted a shot glass filled with liquid sin and said, “To Plan B Bartenders if said crusty crashes and burns.”
I nearly choked. Todd winked and turned away.
Matty elbowed me, leaned in, and whispered, “Ooh, he’s tasty. Good Plan B!”
“He’s not my Plan anything!” I snapped, shook my head, then stared at the door and muttered, “Please don’t be scared off by the glitter jockstrap chandelier.”
Matty patted my leg. “If he is, he’s not the one.”
The door opened again, this time with zero fanfare. There was no whooshing entrance or dramatic flounce or shouted greeting, just two men stepping inside like they owned the place—and were maybe here to repossess it.
Elliot came in first: six-foot-a-lot, all shoulders and calm menace, like a mountain that tired of being walked on and learned to wear flannel. He was quiet, stoic, now bearded, and built like he could bend steel rebar just by glaring at it. Every time he showed up somewhere, it was like a giant exclamation point had just entered the room, but with no actual punctuation, just presence.
Then came Mike: five-foot-ten of hoodie-clad chaos, his hair already sticking up like he’d lost a fight with his pillow, glasses slipping down his nose, and an armful of laminated trivia folders under one arm like a dorky Moses delivering the commandments of obscure knowledge to the Chosen Gays.
As the pair made to join us, a group of guys stood and vacated a prime real-estate booth. Mike and Elliot pounced, turning and waving us over. I raised my glass in a final salute to Todd, then followed Matty and Omar to the booth.
“Oh good,” Mike said the moment he spotted us. “I see we’ve chosen violence tonight.”
He gestured at the glittering jockstrap chandelier above our table.
