Page 98 of Coach
I covered my lower body with my clipboard.
Shane’s eyes tracked the movement, and one brow shot up.
“Sorry, I, uh, was just thinking about . . . never mind. It doesn’t matter. Hi.”
“Hi.” Shane smiled. “Are you done?”
I looked around. The gym was nearly empty.
“I need to—”
“Got it,” Ryan cut me off from a couple of steps behind. Where had he come from, and why was he siding with Shane? “I’ll lock up. Go on. It was a good night. One of us should celebrate.”
I blinked, first at Ryan, then at the floor, then back at Shane.
“Can I buy a winner a drink?” Shane asked, and I swear his eyes were laughing.
“I, uh, sure. Yeah. That sounds great. Let me grab my jacket out of my office.”
“I’ll wait right here,” he said, plopping down onto the bleacher, leaning back, and spreading his arms in both directions like he owned the place.
Chapter 32
Shane
Somewhere between Coach Wex clapping Mateo on the back and one of the players making some wise-ass comment about the scoreboard, I nodded and mumbled something about grabbing a drink.
The next thing I knew, I was in my truck.
Mateo’s headlights were yellow globes in my mirrors, like tiny twin suns, steady and warm. He was right behind me, just like we’d agreed.
“Follow me,” I’d said.
“It’ll be great,” I’d said.
“It’s just a drink,” I’d said.
I just hadn’t figured out where the hell I was taking him.
My hands gripped the steering wheel like it might bolt from under me. I could still hear the echoes of the gym—the shoes squeaking, the refs’ whistles, the way Mateo’s voice cracked through all of it like adamn megaphone forged of fire and espresso.
He was electric.
So damn focused and all business.
And somehow still him—funny, commanding, and grounded.
It was terrifying how drawn to that I was.
I told myself inviting him for a drink had been casual, normal, something people did. Men had beers after long days or victorious conquests, right? It was no big deal.
So why did it feel like my heart was trying to claw its way out of my chest?
I hadn’t had this feeling since . . . hell, maybe ever.
Was this—God help me—joy?
That didn’t sit right. “Joy” felt too light, too soft.
