Page 71 of Coach
“So, I hate to cut this short, but I have a class coming in and—”
“I made you something.”
Mateo went silent.
“It’s nothing big, just, I don’t know, something.” I felt like a drowning man, grasping for anything to keep my head above water. “I, um, would really liketo see you again, you know, to give this to you.”
“I’d like to see you again, too, gift or no gift.”
My heart skipped a beat. He wanted to see me again. He actually wanted to—
His voice stopped my mental tangent. “We have our first pre-season scrimmage tonight or I’d say let’s meet up later. These games don’t matter that much, but this one’s against one of our archrivals. The kids are all worked up.”
“When’s the game?” I asked.
“Four o’clock. It’s early. We do scrimmages like that so the kids can get home at a decent hour. Games during the season don’t start until seven-thirty or eight.”
I grunted. “That makes for late nights.”
Mateo groaned. “After I deal with the parents and everything else, I don’t get home until after midnight some nights.”
“Huh,” was all I could think to say.
“Anyway, if you’re up for it, we can grab dinner after. I doubt we’ll play past six.”
“Sure. Sounds good.”
“Why don’t you come to the school? We can leave your truck here and ride together.” Mateo said something to one of the kids, then his voice returned to the phone. “Sorry, gotta go before the barbarians destroy my village.”
I chuckled. It wasn’t a laugh—just a grunt of amusement—but it felt good.
“See you there.”
“Ciao.”
I didn’t mean to show up early.
Okay, maybe I did.
Mateo invited me to dinner—something casual, he said, something low-key. He’d said it like it was no big deal, like my heart hadn’t already rearranged itself three times just thinking about it.
He had not invited me to watch his team scrimmage their cross-town rival. I’d decided to show up and watch on my own—and I was unsure whether he would appreciate that move or not.
So yeah, I got there early.
The gym door creaked open under my hand, the smell hitting me first—sweat, old leather, floor polish. It was the kind of smell that made me think of Friday nights and adrenaline, of buzzer shots and echoing sneakers.
Players ran and dribbled and shot. Sneakers squeaked. A referee’s whistle pierced the air loudenough to deafen most any creature.
And Mateo was already coaching.
I slipped in quiet, careful, keeping my boots soft as I climbed the bleachers two steps at a time, settling at the top row behind Mateo’s bench. There were only a smattering of parents sitting in twos and threes, with a few larger groups huddled on the opposite side to cheer the visiting team. No one noticed me.
That was the goal.
More importantly,hedidn’t see me.
Good.
