Page 56 of Coach
“I tried to warn you,” I said as we approached.
“No, you didn’t,” Mike replied. “You sent me a winking emoji and a gif of a man getting tackled shirtless.”
“That was the warning.”
Mike slid into the booth beside Omar and began unloading his folders like he was preparing to go to war. “Okay, team. We’re gonna run categories real quick before the quizmaster starts. Elliot, you’re still on sports and obscure eighties horror, right?”
Elliot grunted once. I think it meant “yes,” but it could’ve also meant “I lift tractors for fun.”
“Great,” Mike continued. “Omar, you’ve got geography and Broadway. Matty, you’re on celebrity scandals and fake names of Real Housewives. Mateo—”
“If you assign me math again, I will fake a seizure.” I groaned.
“You’re on mythology, pop culture, and obscure Roman emperors. But not Caligula. Never again.”
“That one time was not my fault.” I pouted.
“You said, and I quote, ‘He was just misunderstood and into orgies.’”
“Which is accurate!” I threw up my hands.
“God,” Matty said, fanning himself, “I love this team.”
Elliot had yet to say a word. He just folded himself into the end of the booth, his arms crossed over his chest like a steel sculpture commissioned by someone horny and minimalist. His eyes scanned the bar, landing on the TV showing shirtless rugby. He nodded once, approvingly.
“How’s the beer?” he asked, voice low enough to cause a minor earthquake.
“Strong,” I said.
Elliot nodded again. “Good. Weak beer is for cowards and Republicans.”
Omar gawked.
Mike beamed. “He speaks. We’ve been blessed.”
Matty leaned in. “Speaking of blessings . . . have we interrogated Mateo yet?”
I groaned, “God, not again—”
Mike gasped. “Is he cute?”
I hesitated.
Elliot raised an eyebrow. “I will break him if he hurts you. You know this, right?”
I slapped my forehead then accidentally slammed a palm to the table. “Ow, shit. Wait! I—no! There will be no breaking!”
“Why not?” Matty asked. “Breaking can be fun. At least, a little bending . . . backward . . . so you can get it in allthe—”
“Matty!” I tried to turn away, but we were too packed into the booth for me to escape his gaze. “No breaking, no bending. Besides, he’s bigger than Elliot.”
Omar whistled, somehow delivering the sound with a British accent, if only in my head.
“He’s definitely Elliot-esque,” Mike said, already practically vibrating.
“No!” I insisted then thought better of it and said, “Well, yes, actually. He’s huge and . . . crusty.”
“Crusty-hot?” Matty asked.
