Page 95 of Coach
Just like that.
Like he’d known I was coming all along.
And my heart? My traitorous pulse?
It wasn’t just racing.
It was breaking every speed limit there had ever been.
So, caught breaking and entering a public space, I did what any sane man would do in my position. I bolted to the top of the bleachers where Mateo would have to turn away from the court to look at me.
There.
Safe.
He couldn’t turn. Wouldn’t turn. He had a team to coach and a game—
Damn it. He turned.
And smiled.
And raised his hand in the most adorable wave.
Just in time for every mom in the stands to follow his gaze, turn, and swoon, a chorus of “oos” and “awws” followed by whispers of “Is that Coach’s boyfriend?” and “Who’s the new hottie?”
I wanted to slink beneath the bleachers, to curl into a ball and hide from the world, but Mateo was still staring, still smiling, still had his hand raised.
There was nothing to be done.
No escape.
No slinking away.
So I waved back.
And the home crowd erupted.
Chapter 31
Mateo
The ref blew his whistle, tossed the ball high above the players, and the gym exploded.
Not literally, not with pressure or nerves, but with sheer lopsided dominance.
This was a team we beat every year. Badly. Their coach was a nice guy, and their kids tried hard—but try-hard didn’t stop fast breaks and tight zone defense. It didn’t stop Cam when he decided the paint belonged to him. It didn’t stop Will from running circles around defenders who couldn’t keep up with a traffic cone.
“Get ready,” I muttered to Ryan, already stepping onto the court as the first bucket dropped with ten seconds off the clock. “It’s going to be ugly.”
By the time we hit four minutes into the first quarter, we were up 12–0, and the Bobcats had barely taken a shot, much less scored.
And that’s when I turned and looked up.
I’d seen him when he walked in; it was hard not to. Shane wasn’t a background kind of man. From the grunts, groans, and whispers that followed his entrance, I was sure every mom—and a few dads—had noticed him, too. I could’ve warned him that would happen, that he would become the talk of the PTA the moment they set eyes on him. I could’ve told him that—if he’d let me know he was coming. Jesus, I was glad to see him, but what in the name of Madonna and her dancers was he thinking?
I’d shoved it all aside, put my mental blinders on.
Now, as we subbed out two starters to give the bench some early burn, I let my eyes flick toward the top row of the bleachers.
