Page 164 of Coach
Chapter 3
Mateo
The second Mike’s car rumbled out of the festival parking lot, he started in.
“So . . .” he drawled, stretching the word out like a man preparing to enjoy himself. “You bought a sideboard. Did it come with a side of Shane, too?”
“It’s not a sideboard. It is an investment in my future.” I stared straight ahead, arms folded, chewing the inside of my cheek. “And no, Mr. Grump Pants did not offer to board my side . . . or any other part of me.”
Mike snorted. “You bought furniture, real furniture. I’m proud of you. Our little boy’s growing up.”
“Stronzo,” I said without realizing I’d just called him an asshole while slipping into Italian.
“And,” he continued, ignoring me, “you bought it from a dude who made you forget your own name for a full sixty seconds.”
“I did not,” I said, indignant. “My name isMarco, damn it.”
Mike didn’t bother arguing. He just laughed—loud and wheezy—and smacked the steering wheel once for emphasis.
“Mateo Ricci, you stared at him like he was the last slice of pizza at a house party.”
“He was just . . . surprising. That is all.” I groaned and let my head fall back against the seat. When Mike glared sideways, I threw up my hands. “What? He appeared out of nowhere. The man was lurking behind his furniture. My furniture. He’s a lurker. Should that not scare us both? I bought wood from a lurker.”
“Uh-huh. I bet you want his wood, if that’s what we’re calling it.”
I huffed, yanking my seat belt tighter like I could somehow strap in my shame. “Besides, it’s not like I could’ve flirted with him; he barely said ten words, and the ones he did say sounded like they hurt coming out.”
“Like a good fart you know better than to push out too hard?”
“Mio Dio.” I covered my face with a palm.
Mike grinned so wide I could hear it in the dark cab of the truck. “Mateo, he’s tall, built like a Mack truck, and can probably chop firewood shirtless without breaking a sweat . . . or maybe he sweats likea beast. That would be even better, right? He soundsexactlylike your type.”
“Exactly!” I flailed a hand in his direction. “Aside from the whole lack of conversing thing, he’stooperfect—and that’s how Iknowhe’s a serial killer.”
Mike barked out a laugh. “A serial killer?”
“Yes,” I said. “He probably has tiny jars of old boyfriends’ bits in his workshop freezer. Like, ‘Here’s Derek’s pinky toe; it annoyed me, all bent and gnarly. Here’s Brian’s left earlobe; I used to nibble this. Here’s Kevin’s—’”
Mike was full-on wheezing now, trying to drive with one hand while the other wiped tears from his eyes.
“Face it,” he said when he could breathe again, “you’d love to get chopped up by him.”
“I would not!” I gaped at him. “I like my toes and lobes where they are, thank you very much.”
“Yousowould,” Mike said, voice gleeful. “You’d show up at his cabin in the woods like, ‘Hi, yes, I brought cookies and my own duct tape. Do you prefer vanilla-scented or standard-issue trash bags?’”
“I hate you.”
He just laughed harder, speeding up a little as we hit the main road back toward Mount Vernon High.
“You’re mad because I’m right,” he said. “You want him to install your fancy old TV stand, thenwreck your life against it, leave a butt print for all to see when they watchReal Housewives, tear open your asshole like a bad Ziploc bag that refuses to open . . . respectfully, of course.”
“Of course.” I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms tighter, staring out the window. “EvenifI wanted to flirt with him—and I’m not saying I did—he wouldn’t have noticed. His personality was flatter than the top of that furniture. Hell, he had that whole ‘emotionally unavailable but hot enough to ruin your GPA’ vibe down better than most of my players—and they know how to play the emotional idiot card.”
Mike snickered. “And yet you still almost proposed marriage over a walnut sideboard.”
“I was making a responsible adult purchase!” I snapped. “There was no proposing. None. Not even a hint of one.”
