Page 146 of Coach
There were no buzzer beaters, no last-second shots on which the crowd’s very breath hung. Mateo’s Mustangs’ worst game was won by more than twenty points.
And the championship?
They destroyed their opponents so badly the opposing coach sent in his second string before the first half ended.
I played football. A blowout always felt good.
Like, seriously good.
But the Mustangs dealt such a spanking in that last game of the District Tournament that most of their own crowd stopped watching to chat with their neighbor or play games on their phones. When Gabe hoisted the trophy over his head, and his teammates threw their hands in the air like gays when Gloria Gaynor walked on stage, the mood in the stands was more “what’s next” than overly celebratory.
Still, I could see the pride and relief in Mateo’s eyes from across the court.
It made my heart do weird things in my chest.
I wasn’t sure that was normal, but it felt really good.
I couldn’t stop looking at him, tearing that purple polo off him and licking his nipples and abs and—
“Mr. Shane?”
I startled at the youthful voice and the boy who owned it now standing before me. I knew the names of all of Mateo’s starters, but this kid was unfamiliar.
“I’m Stan, a freshman. Coach Ricci sent me to get you. He wants you with us on the floor.”
Most of the crowd had thinned. The opponents had already fled to the showers. Some of Mateo’s own players were sauntering away, a girlfriend—or mom—under one arm (or one under each arm in a few cases). I couldn’t fathom why he’d want me down there as everyone faded back into their lives.
But I followed the kid, one bleacher after the next, one metallicthunkat a time.
We reached the hardwood and strode down the center.
“Anything else, Coach?” Stan asked.
“No, thanks, Stan. Save me a seat and some pizza, all right?”
“Sure thing, Coach.” The boy smiled and ran in the direction of his teammates, now exiting the gym with a flock of parents and siblings following close behind. Less than a handful of heartbeats later, Mateo and I stood alone on the far sideline at center court.
The click of someone turning out the lights echoed off the halls.
An electronic hum heralded the slow decline in light, casting shadows, then darkness throughout the massive chamber.
Mateo closed the distance between us.
“Hey you—” was all I got out before his hands clamped onto the sides of my head, and his lips threatened to suck the breath from my lungs. We’d shared some hungry kisses, but none were as ravenous as that post-game pucker. Dear God, Mateo kissed me as though we stood on the edge of the world as an asteroid barreled toward Earth.
And for once in my life, I melted into his arms and surrendered control.
Mateo’s fingers climbed up my neck, to the back of my head, where they dug into my scalp. He wasn’t holding me so much as claiming my space, my skin—claiming me—as his own.
“Mateo.” My breath came out a rasp. “Someone might see us.”
He didn’t slow or let go, but between kisses, he mumbled, “My office. Now.”
Without warning, he spun me around and shoved me before him and toward the door that led into the bowels of the gym. We stumbled through the now-empty locker room, past piles of discarded socks and underwear that smelled like something otherworldly had died and festered in place, and into a glass-doored office whose plaque read, “Mateo Ricci, Head Coach.”
The moment the door clicked shut, I heard the zip of Mateo closing the blinds that covered his door.
We were alone. Finally.
