Page 14 of Coach
I nodded. “Most couldn’t make my JV team, much less carry the water bottles for the varsity.”
“Ouch. Failing to make the cut for team manager is pretty low.”
“You saw them Friday. What did you think?”
Mike turned and tossed his wadded-up wrapper toward the trash can, missing by half the length of the wall.
“Never mind,” I said. “That shot told me all I needed to know.”
“But I’m good at trivia,” Mike whined. “And I’m super cute.”
I chuckled. “You are a trivia master, but the jury is still out on the cute part. You reds are trouble.”
He ran a hand through his thick, wavy hair, making a show of straightening a few curls. “We reds are an endangered species. You should show us more respect lest we die out and leave your world with no color at all.”
I was still groaning when my phone buzzed, vibrating like a dying cricket against the cheap laminate surface of the table.
I glanced at the screen. It was a text from an Atlanta number I didn’t recognize.
Unknown Number:Hey. It’s Shane. From the festival. Your sideboard’s ready for pickup whenever. No rush. Just figured I’d let you know.
Mike leaned over, because of course he did; privacy was a myth in the gay world, as fictitious as the Tooth Fairy or Cookie Monster.
“Ooooh,” he crooned, sounding way too pleased. “Flannel Daddy slides into the DMs.”
“This is a text message, not a DM,” I muttered, stabbing at my salad like it had personally offended me. “And he’s just letting me know my TV stand is ready. There’s nothing going on here.”
“Uh-huh,” Mike said. I could practically hear him filing this away for later blackmail. “Furniture . . .and fate.”
I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt. “He’s just telling me my sideboard’s ready. He probably sent the same message to three other people.”
“Yeah? You think he’s building secret sideboards for half the county?” Mike raised an eyebrow. “Oh, wait, three other people? You think he’s into three-ways? Or would that be a four-way? You could totally get banged from every direction!”
“I hate you so damn much.” I pointed my fork at him. “I just need to go pick up the piece. That’s all. If I get murdered and turned into a rustic coffee table, you’re testifying at the trial.”
Mike grinned. “Gladly. I’ll start drafting my statement now: ‘He died as he lived, making bad decisions about men with excellent forearms.’”
I groaned and dropped my forehead onto the table.
The phone buzzed again.
A second text?
Unknown Number:No pressure. Just figured you might want to put that TV on something that doesn’t collapse if you sneeze.
Mike howled so loud Mrs. Abernathy from theEnglish department gave us a dirty look over the rim of her mystery soup and romance novel.
I didn’t dare move, just lay there, face buried in folded arms, contemplating the quirks of fate that had led me to being roasted via text message by a man who looked like he had once punched a bear in the face for looking at him wrong.
Without warning, Mike grabbed my phone and began typing.
“What the hell—?”
“Oh, shut it, Ricci. I’m just saving his number for you.”
“Great. In case I have some kind of furniture emergency?”
“One never knows.” Mike clapped me on the back, his grin wide enough to bare multiple rows of shark teeth. “You’re screwed, man. Deeply, gloriously screwed.”
