Page 93 of Coach
“All night?” Her eyebrows shot up.
I didn’t answer. No good came of answering.
She clapped a hand on my shoulder harder than necessary, then turned toward the door. “Try not tosand your feelings off while I’m gone, and for God’s sake, take a shower. You smell like a lumberyard had a nervous breakdown.”
She left with a two-finger salute—apparently feeling a bit European—and the faint sound of a car key fob chirping in her wake.
I sat there, staring into the now-closed door. The shop was too quiet, the tools too still, and all I could think about was the way Mateo looked when he paced the court—commanding, intense, alive.
“Damn it, Shane, you have work to do,” I groused, reaching for the stereo and willing Steve Perry and team into life. If I was going to brood, I was doing it with the dulcet tones of the greatest band ever in the background.
I didn’t have time for this.
Any of it.
And I didn’t have time to drive across town to watch high school boys play basketball.
Definitely not.
Wasn’t going to happen.
I planed a little too hard, shaving a deep gouge in the perfect leg.
“Mother fu—”
I tossed the planer down and ran a hand through my hair, spreading sawdust across my scalp in the process. Great. Just great.
Then Mateo’s infectious smile popped into my head, and his accent curled around me, drifting through Journey’s drumbeats to find its way into my ears.
Fuck me. I want to go to the damn game.
Who did that? What kind of stalker . . .
Just the thought of Mateo on that court, barking out plays, calling drills, pacing like a general in sneakers—it lit something up in my chest. So many foreign feelings flared in my chest: curiosity, admiration, maybe something a little needier.
But also?
I was tired.
Bone-deep tired.
And showing up smelling like desperation and cedar chips didn’t scream romantic follow-up to a shirtless make-out session.
I had time to shower and change. The boys didn’t start until seven-thirty, maybe later if the girls game before them took too long. Why did I even know that? In what world was I reading the high school sports page and caring about the stories? Had I lost the last marble rattling around in my thick, impenetrable skull?
Then again, if I stayed in the shop, I’d just end up sanding through this table leg like it owed me money, blasting more Journey—possibly resortingto Styx and spiraling about whether he thought last night meant something.
Or worse—whether I thought it did.
I dragged a hand through my hair again and glanced toward the half-finished project, then toward the door. It was like watching a match at Wimbledon from the front row at the net.
Back and forth and back and forth.
Damn it.
It wasn’t a question ofifanymore.
Only how fast I could shower, throw on clean jeans, and pretend I hadn’t spent the last hour carving mahogany while daydreaming about a man who kissed me like he meant it.
