Page 64 of Coach
Matty had just lifted his tequila shot to his lips and spat it across the table.
“Our boy? A gentleman?” His grin grew lecherous.
“I am, thank you very much, not at all like you sluts who sucked and spanked on your first date!” I said.
“They spank?” Shane deadpanned.
The entire table froze, as though someone had pressed the pause button on life. Only eyes moved, flicking from me to Shane and back.
Then everyone burst out laughing.
Except Shane.
He sat there like, well, an oak.
The bar lights dimmed as the DJ-slash-host-slash-shirtless-man-in-a-referee-uniform climbed up onto a small stage and tapped his mic. “Welcome to trivia night, you knowledge-thirsty heathens!”
The bar roared.
Mike clapped his hands, cutting through the chaos. “Okay! Trivia time, hookers!” He then passed out laminated scorecards like SAT proctors pass out doom.
Then he cleared his throat. “Trivia. Focus,people.”
And that’s when it happened.
Shane’s hand, resting on his thigh, brushed mine.
Not in a full-on hand-holding way—not even in a proper flirt—just a casual brush. His pinky, the soft, calloused side of it, grazing the back of my hand like it was no big deal.
Except it was.
Possibly the biggest deal ever.
Chapter 20
Shane
Trivia night ended in a mess of laughter and half-spilled beer, everyone riding that post-win buzz like they’d just taken State. Mateo’s team had edged out the win—barely—and only because Elliot pulled Shakespeare knowledge out of his back pocket like a magic trick.
I said little. I never did things like this. But I didn’t mind the noise. Or the company. Or Mateo’s smile lighting up every corner of the bar like it owned the place.
When the last of our mugs were drained and the tab was paid, we clamored out of our booth like a stampeding herd and headed to the parking lot. Outside, the night was cooler than I expected, the kind of Georgia breeze that made the parking lot feel wider and quieter, despite the waves of rowdy gays pouring out of the bar. We all funneled out together—Matty and Elliot bickering about the finalround, Omar heckling someone about a spelling bee incident I didn’t quite understand, and Mike yelling something scandalous about winning “like a woman on a mission with a wine spritzer.”
Mateo stuck close to me, and I let him. Not because I had anything clever to say, but because I didn’t want to not be near him. His shoulder brushed mine every so often. It felt deliberate. He wasn’t subtle.
I didn’t mind.
We stopped near Matty’s car, everyone peeling off in different directions. Mike gave me a look—half amusement, half warning—and slapped Mateo on the back before heading to his own car with Elliot in tow. Matty winked at me like he knew every secret I’d ever tried to bury.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t videotape,” he called over his shoulder.
Then it was just us.
Mateo ambled beside me as we crossed the gravel lot toward my truck. He talked the whole way—soft, rapid-fire commentary about trivia, the boys, how Matty thought Australia was in Europe. His hands moved as much as his mouth, painting shapes in the air like punctuation marks, brushing his curls back every few sentences like they were impeding his thoughts. His shoulder bumped mine again, thenagain, like he wasn’t quite ready to stop being near me, like proximity was another kind of question.
And every few seconds, he’d glance at me, just to check I was still there. Like he wasn’t sure what I was thinking but hoped it wasn’t bad.
I grunted. Twice.
