Page 190 of Coach
Shane had no idea what was coming for him.
That thought made me giggle . . . inside . . . where the little boy lived and giggled at stupid fart jokes and double entendres. He giggled his little ass off.
“Well,” I said, dragging a hand through my hair, “you already know I talk too much—and we’re drinking—so buckle up.”
He didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched. I was learning how that tiny tic wasbasically a standing ovation, in Shane-speak.
“I grew up in Italy,” I started, resting my arms on the table. “In a small town you’ve never heard of. Not the picture-perfect vineyard type—more cobblestone alleys and guys named Vito who ran cafés like crime fronts.”
His eyebrow arched, and I grinned. “I’m kidding . . . kind of. My family owns a bakery. Ricci Pane. It’s been there since my grandfather’s grandfather could swing a rolling pin, maybe a few centuries before, if you believe the family tales.”
I paused, sipping my beer.
“You didn’t want to be a baker? Carry on the family legacy?”
I shrugged. “I was supposed to take it over, knead dough, sell cannoli, marry some sweet Italian girl and live above the shop.” I shrugged. “Instead, I fell in love with basketball.”
Shane blinked. “In Italy?”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “We had one tiny court with busted backboards and no nets. I used to sneak out and play until midnight. My mom said I dribbled in my sleep.”
That got him.
A real smile, small but warm, flickered across his face.
I pretended not to notice, though it hit me squarein the chest.
“I moved to the States when I was eighteen,” I said. “Got a partial scholarship to a small college in the South. Nothing fancy. I was fast, scrappy, could shoot from anywhere. A D-I college picked me up in my junior year, but I wasn’t . . . good enough, not really, certainly not to play at the next level.”
I let that hang for a second. It still stung, even years later, even though I’d made peace with it.
“I watched a few guys I played with go pro, saw my name vanish from the board. That part hurt like hell. I thought I’d wasted everything.” I traced the condensation on my glass with one finger.
Shane just sat there, watching. His face may as well have been carved of stone for what little much it gave away.
“I’d majored in education, knew I wanted to work with kids if the pros didn’t come calling. After I graduated, I took the job here in Atlanta and started helping with the JV team. It wasn’t much, just drills, warm-ups, managing schedules . . . that sort of thing. I didn’t think much of it until one day, this freshman—tiny kid, fast as hell, but with no aim whatsoever—made his first three-pointer after I adjusted his grip.” I smiled at the memory. “He lit up like he’d just won the Olympics.”
I looked up at Shane.
“That was it for me. I was hooked. I wanted that moment, over and over, not just to play, but to teach, to help him—and kids like him—chase the dream that slipped past me.”
He didn’t say anything, just watched me like I was saying something important.
And maybe I was.
I leaned back, exhaling. “So now I teach history, coach basketball, yell at teenage boys for leaving their shoes everywhere, and occasionally get flirted with by someone’s mom during parent-teacher conferences.”
A beat.
“And I love it. All of it, even the cougars. They’re kind of fun.”
Shane’s gaze stayed steady. Unreadable.
Just still . . . like he was storing it all up for later.
The waiter returned with fresh beer, and I took a long sip, hoping it’d cool the heat rising in my chest.
“Did you dream of furniture when you were a kid?” I asked, nudging his foot under the table. “Or were you the broodiest six-year-old ever and just didn’t tell anyone your dreams?”
