Page 144 of Coach
I didn’t know if I could become that guy.
I wanted to be.
God, I wanted to be.
I wanted to hand him a key and say, “Make this your home, too.”
I wanted to wake up to the sound of his ridiculous humming, to his hair sticking up in every direction. I wanted to fold his laundry next to mine, buy milkfor two, argue about where the spare socks go.
But deep down, I couldn’t stop wondering: What if I mess it up? What if I love him with everything I have, and it’s still not enough? What if I’m too heavy, too stubborn, too broken in ways he hasn’t seen yet?
What if I let him in, and he realizes I’m not worth staying for?
And yet—I still wanted him.
Every hour of every day.
Even if I didn’t know whether I could make him happy.
I’d go out to the shop to work but would find myself sanding the same damn table leg for twenty minutes, zoning out as my mind wandered to Mateo’s curls and that one freckle just beneath his left collarbone. I’d remember the way he smiled when he was trying not to—when he thought he had to be serious, but I cracked some deadpan joke, and his whole face lit up like it couldn’t help itself.
Even in the shower, I couldn’t escape him. I’d close my eyes and he’d be there, hot water cascading down my back as I remembered the sound he made when I kissed the underside of his jaw, or how he whispered my name when I was inside him. I’d get hard in seconds, one hand braced against the tile, the other . . . handling business.
But it wasn’t lust, not really.
Not only.
It was need. Deep, aching need.
I didn’t just want Mateo in my bed. I wanted him on my couch, tossing popcorn at my face during a movie. I wanted him humming off-key in my kitchen, stealing my socks because he never packed his own (or lost one and still needed to borrow a pair). I wanted him in my house—hell,ourhouse—every night and every damn morning.
The time between our dates felt like a punishment.
And I hated it.
Every buzzer-beating win, every late-night text, every hour that ticked by without him made two things clear.
Mateo wasn’t just a fling.
He wasn’t a fun distraction.
He wasn’t casual.
He was everything.
And I was his.
Chapter 46
Mateo
Acertain amount of nerves before a big event or speech or game was always healthy. The energy simmered like fuel waiting to be used, to be spent in just the right moment to seal the deal—or in our case, the victory.
My Mustangs finished the regular season ranked number one in both our district and region. Local newspapers had us ranked third in the state. Third? We were better than those other teams. I knew we were.
Being underestimated was an entirely different fuel.
Despite the healthy benefits of pregame jitters, the annoying shake in my fingers as I pulled my purple polo over my head and tried to fasten the bottom button was, to say the least, annoying.
