Page 15 of Coach
“I fucking hate you,” I muttered into the table.
“You love me, and you know it,” he said, popping the last carrot stick into his mouth. “But not as much as you’re gonna love getting that sideboard. Or should I say, ‘getting sideboarded’?”
I groaned into my folded arms.
Mrs. Abernathy cackled from across the room. I swear I heard her mutter, “Sideboarded, that’s good.”
Reluctantly, I grabbed my phone and typed.
Me:Thanks for the heads-up. I don’t think I can fit it in my Jeep. I can rent a truck this weekend if you’re okay with that.
Flannel Daddy:Aw, man, I can’t let you do that. I have a truck. Come to my place and I’ll help you haul it.
“Flannel Daddy? Seriously?”
Mike giggled—like the prepubescent girl he was.
Mrs. Abernathy slammed her book shut and wiped tears from her eyes.
I blew out a breath and focused on my screen.
Me:That’s awesome. Thanks, Shane. How’s two o’clock on Saturday?
Flannel Daddy:Perfect. I’ll text my address. Thanks for the business.
Business. Right. That’s all this was.
I was sure of it.
Chapter 6
Shane
The plans looked like they’d been pulled straight from a fever dream. Fine-carved panels. Hand-cut joinery. Intricate inlays I could barely sketch, let alone recreate. The client wanted something that “evoked an ancient Chinese curio”—without looking like a replica, of course. He wanted “respectful inspiration,” “period harmony,” and “authenticity with artistic voice.”
Whatever the hell that meant.
It sounded like the guy needed to fly to China and shop for something from the fourteenth century rather than having a new piece made, but work was work. Who was I to argue?
I’d been at it for weeks now. Every line I drew felt like guesswork. Every piece I cut I second-guessed. The base of the cabinet was roughed out. It was solid cherry, already shaped and sanded smooth, but the latticework that would form the upperframe—that delicate, decorative mess of curves and precision angles that hinted at being a dragon but wasn’t—was giving me hell.
I crouched over the layout, pencil behind one ear, glue drying on my knuckles, and cursed under my breath as another strip cracked under the pressure of the jig.
It was too dry and too goddamn fragile.
I tossed the ruined piece aside and scrubbed a hand over my face, immediately regretting it as glue globbed on my eyebrow in a way that might take a surgeon to remove.
I was a master of my craft, but I felt out of my depth. Chinese workmanship, especially that of centuries ago, was beyond human comprehension, much less replication.
But I couldn’t stop.
Something about the challenge hooked me. It always did.
I wasn’t competing for a trophy or ring of leaves on my head. I was battling wood and thoughts and dreams—and ideas of whatcouldbe, if only I applied enough effort and desire.
Maybe it was the level of detail or the delicacy. Those were challenges in themselves, things that drove and inspired my inner creative.
Maybe it was me not knowing if I could pull it off,that I doubted myself, that I had to stretch beyond any skill I’d ever possessed to make this thing work.
