Page 122 of Coach
Matt pointed. “I know it’s you, honey. You’re the only one wearing a tiara the size of a car tire.”
More laughter.
He leaned on the stool, smirking. “So how long you been with your man?”
She shouted something incoherent.
Matt cupped his ear. “Two years? Ten? Since fifth grade? I need a number, girl!”
“Three!” she yelled.
Matt nodded sagely. “Three years . . . and he still proposed? You must be doing something right . . . probably something illegal in three states, but I respect it. Do what ya gotta do, that’s what I say.”
The place lost it again.
Shane was chuckling beside me, enjoying the show.
Me? I was trying not to vibrate out of my chair.
Because Matt’s eyes kept roaming. He was just warming up, working left to right.
And we were next in the sweep.
I could feel it.
I glanced at Shane, my heart racing. The man looked like a goddamn centerfold tonight—flannel sleeves pushed up, forearms flexed, jaw carved from stone. And me? Sitting beside him like a deer in headlights.
If Matt’s gaze lands on us next . . . oh God . . . why had I brought us here?
I was not prepared to be publicly roasted about dating a hot woodworker in front of an entire club.
“Please skip us. Please skip us. Please skip us,” I intoned under my breath.
Shane arched a brow. “What?”
“Nothing,” I whispered, eyes locked on Matt as he straightened, mic in hand, scanning for his next target. He’d left the women wetting themselves and was now searching for a new victim.
And all I could think was:Dear God, please pick anyone but us . . .
But fate was a cruel bitch.
Matt straightened, cocked his head—and locked on.
“Oh, what do we have here?” He grinned, pacing to the edge of the stage and squinting toward our table. “Couple good-looking dudes sitting in the front row like they own the place. What’re your names, fellas?”
I wanted to melt into the floor.
But my mouth, traitorous thing, worked on autopilot. “Mateo.”
Matt lit up. “Mateo? Oh, well, shit—now we’re talking.” He sauntered to the edge of the stage, leaning in like we were old friends and shielding his eyesfrom the spotlight. “That’s a dangerous name right there. You hear that roll off the tongue? That’s the kind of name that sounds like a cock sliding into a hole with every syllable.”
The crowd howled.
My face went nuclear.
Mike cackled beside me, completely unhelpful. Shane snorted once—but I could feel his hand squeeze mine tighter under the table.
“Are you the hole or is he?” Matt gestured with the microphone to Mike.
