Page 152 of Coach
My players dropped their heads, a couple collapsing to their knees. One ripped off his headband and flung it, while another stared at the scoreboard as though he could will it to change.
I forced myself forward, chest tight, throat raw.
“Line up,” I said, voice low but firm. “Shake their hands. Finish with your heads up, you hear me?”
We met at center court. My boys moved like ghosts.
The other coach clasped my hand. “Hell of a game, Coach.”
I nodded, but I couldn’t speak.
Because I’d never heard silence this loud.
Chapter 49
Shane
Mateo had barely spoken in two days.
Since the buzzer sounded on their Regional game, he’d moved like a ghost, still showing up, still teaching, still working as hard as he always did; but there was something hollow in his voice. That spark in his eyes hadn’t vanished, but it was definitely dim—and God, I missed it.
So I made a decision.
It was one he tried to argue against, of course, spouting nonsense about watching the State Tournament out of obligation, keeping tabs on his rivals, or honoring the season.
But I wouldn’t hear it.
“We’re going,” I told him Thursday night. “Bags are packed. Car’s full. You’ve got the weekend off, and I’ve already warned Stevie to lie if you try to call her to talk me out of it.”
He glared.
I kissed his cheek.
He didn’t glare quite as hard after that.
The drive out of town was quiet for the first half hour, nothing but highway and low-volume indie music. Eventually, he reached over and laced our fingers together.
The bed-and-breakfast sat on the edge of a vineyard that looked like it belonged on a postcard with its old stone walls, wisteria crawling up the porch columns, and a wraparound veranda with enough rocking chairs to host a Baptist church social. The room they gave us smelled like lavender and lemon furniture polish, with thick quilts on the bed and a fireplace I planned to light the second the sun went down.
Mateo stood in the center of the room, looking like he didn’t know what to do with all the peace.
“This is . . . nice,” he said, then exhaled like he hadn’t breathed in days.
I stepped up behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist. “Love you.”
His head fell back against my shoulder. “Sorry I’m in a funk. I thought this was our year. I wanted it . . . for the kids . . . you know?”
I knew the feeling—at least, I knew it from a player’s perspective. My high school football team hadbeen amazing, winning State and State, year after year. My senior year, we were ranked number one in the whole damn country.
And we’d lost in the second round of the District Tourney to a no-name team who hadn’t won more than three games in two seasons. Losing sucked. There was no way around it. But losing when you were supposed to win? Beating yourself? That was beyond any level of sucking possible. Ask any athlete; they’ll tell you the same. I suspected it was no different for coaches.
“I just hate it for kids like Gabe. He’s graduating this year. This was his last shot at a title.”
We hung out in our room for a while, Mateo flipping mindlessly through TV channels neither of us cared anything about, and me pretending to read a book someone had left on the nightstand. It was a romance, of all things. When I got to a sex scene in which the author described the sexual act with the man mimicking a parent feeding a child, complete with, “Open wide for the choo-choo,” I couldn’t take it anymore and tossed it aside.
“This is a vineyard,” I said, not exactly an earth-shattering pronouncement.
“And?” Mateo cocked a brow.
