Page 133 of Coach
November blurred past in a flurry of late nights and adrenaline. There were days I swore I saw moreof the mustang logo on the gym floor than my own apartment.
And I loved it. God, I loved it.
This year’s team was good, one of the best I’d ever coached. Most of my guys were seniors or juniors, making me wonder if next year would be a letdown after what was shaping up to be a real title run, but I’d worry about that later, after we went to State, after we hefted the trophy that represented the pinnacle of our sport. I was sure that’s where we were headed—as sure as any coach could ever be before the games were played.
We only dropped one game in November and early December—a fluke loss on an away court with a brutal reffing crew and three players sick with the flu. Otherwise, we were dominant, fast and tight on defense. We played like a unit, like a band of brothers who’d grown up on the hardwood together.
And that mattered.
But the whirlwind that was my season also made dating . . . complicated.
Time was our enemy.
And Shane and I were still figuring it out.
He continued to open up, to talk more, to let me see the somewhat softer side of the iron-hewn god that was my sort-of boyfriend. We hadn’t labeled ourselves beyond “dating,” the word he’dunceremoniously used in his awkward proposal those months ago.
We texted constantly—well, as constantly as Shane texted anyone, which meant a lot of short, to-the-point messages and the occasional photo of something he was working on. Half the time I didn’t know whether I wanted to kiss my phone or throw it across the room just to get him to say more.
I don’t remember when he learned his phone had a camera, but one night, as I was nearly passed out on the couch following a long overtime win, my phone buzzed. I flicked the screen to life and was greeted by a veiny, thick mushroom squeezed tight by meaty fingers.
I nearly came in my shorts just looking at it.
That started a tradition. Any night we slept apart—which was most of them during the season—we traded naughty pics as a way of saying, “I’m thinking about you . . . and playing with myself.”
Despite me snapping images of my face, kissing him, smiling at the camera, waving into the screen, he never snapped his face, only his outsized member that always seemed to smile up at me with its tiny, crooked grin.
It was juvenile, something teenage boys might do right before telling a fart joke or mocking one another; but it was ours,ourjuvenile stupidity,ourtradition. I came to crave his nightly pics, the image of his manhood yearning for me, throbbing for me, sometimes leaking for me.
God, Shane was hot, and he knew how to torment me right down to my soul.
He came to a few home games when he could—sitting way up in the bleachers, his arms crossed, eyes sharp and focused in a way that made my stomach flip every damn time. I’d catch him watching me coach and have to remind myself not to start grinning like a fool mid-play.
The team moms picked up on his presence, like a flock of hawks homing in on their prey. Thankfully, his statue-like posture, monosyllabic responses, and stern gaze sent most of them fluttering away before any real damage could be done—or rumors started.
Well, wilder rumors than had already spread.
We weren’t sneaky. Everyone knew who Shane was, that we were dating. Still, any hint of privacy we might’ve enjoyed was foiled by the PTA and their cadre of former intelligence officers posing as team moms.
At the same time as my season roared to life, his business boomed.
He’d landed three new commissions—high-end pieces for clients who didn’t blink at his waitlist or his escalating price tags. Most days, he was in theshop from dawn till late, covered in sweat with saw blades humming until the stars came out.
We joked that we were dating like retirees—sending each other good morning and goodnight texts, grabbing lunch on random Wednesdays when we could steal an hour.
Mike and Sisi were relentless, especially Mike. His idea of a relationship involved chaining himself to his partner and never violating the “five-foot rule,” meaning they were never more than five feet apart, even if one of them had to pee. I suppose that kind of clingy romanticism was cute in its way, but Shane and I would never know. Our jobs, our schedules, our lives wouldn’t allow it.
And still, somehow, it worked.
Weworked.
Maybe because it mattered more that we were in each other’s lives than how much time we spent. Or maybe our troublesome, separate paths forced us to cherish what time we had together more than we might have otherwise. Whatever the magic formula, the smile Shane gave me each time we saw each other after a few days apart was the brightest ray of sunlight ever to cross the sky, and I knew, with each passing day, my life would never be quite the same without it.
December stormed in with frosty mornings andeven colder gyms. Breath fogged in the locker rooms some mornings before the heat kicked on. Early snows and frozen nights paralyzed much of Atlanta in annoying intervals that promised more makeup games than scheduled ones.
The kids started counting down to break, and I started counting down to a chance to sleep past 6 a.m. We had games during the holiday respite, a tournament across town that, if we won our way through, would consume much of our time off. Still, without classes during the day, I knew the two-week sabbatical would offer much-needed rest for my players and their weary coach.
And still—every text from Shane made me smile.
