Page 142 of Coach
“Is this true? Are you just hooking up? What are your intentions with our boy, Shane?” Her glare was withering.
“Sisi,” Mrs. H whispered, a weathered hand landingon Sisi’s arm.
She shrugged it off. “Well?”
Shane glanced at me, then back to the group. Far too many eyes blinked back in anticipation.
“Mateo is mine,” Shane declared.
No one spoke.
Even Matty’s toe-tapping stilled.
Shane squeezed me tighter into him, as if to underscore his point.
When he didn’t offer any more, Sisi clapped her hands twice and said, “Well, that clears nothing up. Who wants dessert?”
Chapter 45
Shane
Iwasn’t sure when it happened—somewhere between Mateo stealing my fries at every meal and me pretending to be mad about it—but somehow, the man had fully embedded himself in every part of my day. The vast majority of my life had been spent avoiding close contact with the human kind; and yet, there I was, daydreaming about spending more time with someone, feeling his hands on my skin, his lips brushing against my own.
We spent every waking moment together through the holidays. If he wasn’t at my place—barefoot, with tousled hair and humming some old Italian tune while he raided my fridge—I was at his, dodging flying laundry or watching him scribble plays in a dog-eared notebook like he was mapping out a war campaign.
Basketball season hadn’t slowed him down. In fact, it was just revving up.
And it had revvedhimup.
And I—God help me—loved watching him in his element.
Every game, I was there, perched in my center bleacher on the top row, just left of the bench. The parents stopped asking who I was. The kids started calling me Coach Ricci’s friend, like we were in high school again. Ryan even tossed me a chin nod each time I entered the gym.
When they won the Holiday Tournament, the whole damn team piled into cars and caravaned to Frankie’s Pizza like we’d just won a state championship. Mateo tried to keep it low-key—he even warned me we’d “just be grabbing slices”—but that lie unraveled quicker than the fast breaks that had won them the trophy.
And when they hoisted the silver and gold atrocity they received for winning, a rickety rendition of “We Are the Champions” was bellowed into the restaurant’s lone karaoke mic.
And Mateo?
Mateo was radiant.
His cheeks were flushed, his eyes shining. He laughed so hard he spilled soda down the front of his shirt. I wanted to kiss him right there in front of everyone, but I didn’t.
Instead, I stayed close and let my arm brush hiswhen we sat.
I watched his every expression.
And when the kids pulled him up to take a thousand photos with the trophy, I snapped one for myself, not of the team, just of him.
I’d worried so much about how we would be perceived. I wasn’t too worried about the kids. Gay couples were so common among their generation that I doubted they’d blink twice if we made out on center court. It was the parents who terrified me. They had power over their kids. Worse, they had it over the school and district. If they thought their children were at risk to a predatory coach, Mateo’s career would suffer. It wouldn’t matter if the claims were baseless—the lie would tarnish his reputation forever.
The welcome I received—no, the welcomewereceived—was beyond any I could’ve dreamed. Kids high-fived and fist-bumped us both. Dads shook my hand and clapped my shoulder, a few going so far as to offer a solid bro-hug. Moms insisted on hugging me, some gripping my chest—though I doubt that was a sign of acceptance as much as cougar curiosity. Either way, they were warm, open-hearted, and more curious about when we’d make things official and public than anything else.
I’d been on the outside looking in for most of mylife. Their acceptance was almost more than I could stomach. By the end of the night, I found myself sitting at the edge of the group, watching from my comfy bleacher seat a good distance away.
One lone boy pulled up a chair beside me.
“Hey, Mr. Douglas.”
