Page 194 of Coach
Elliot leaned forward like a man about to light a match.
And just like that, dinner took a dangerous turn.
“So,” Mike said, stabbing something beige and unidentifiable, “how was your date?”
“Fuck that,” Mrs. H barked. “How was the sex? Is his cock as big as the rest of him? Mike said he makes Jack Reacher look like a puss.”
Elliot smothered his mouth with a cloth napkin.
Mike’s chair groaned as he sat back.
I couldn’t bring myself to look up.
“It wasn’t a date,” I mumbled. “And there was no sex, not even a peck on the cheek.”
“It was dinner . . . with a hot man you dressed up for,” Elliot said, chewing. “That’s the textbook definition of a date.”
“I wore jeans,” I groused. “Besides, I’m Italian. We always dress well. It’s genetic.”
“He’s got ya there,” Mrs. H agreed, nodding toward me.
Mike ignored her. “You put extra product in yourhair. I saw it.”
I pointed my fork at him. “You saw me right after the gym. That was sweat.”
“It was strategically placed perspiration.”
“Purposeful moisture.” Elliot nodded. “That’s date behavior.”
“Wait. Did you say there was no peck on the cheek? Did you even try?” Mike asked, leaning in like this was a live-streamed soap opera.
“No,” I said quickly.
“Did youwantto kiss him?” Elliot pressed with a shark’s grin.
I hesitated.
That was enough to make every juror in the room leap to conclusions.
“Oooooh,” they said in tandem, like they’d rehearsed it.
“I hate every last one of you.” Then I looked down at the sleeping dog and added, “Except you. You can stay.”
“If you’re not kissing him, you’re doing it wrong.” Mrs. H cackled. “Ya gotta use the tongue God gave you. Get in there good and root around.”
Mike had devolved into a howling hyena. “Root around!” He snorted.
Mrs. H wasn’t done. “I want smut and scandal, Mateo. Grab that boy and bend him over. Mark yourterritory. Plant that flag. Make me proud.”
“Oh my God,” I muttered, shoving stew into my mouth so I didn’t have to respond.
“Don’t encourage her,” Elliot stage-whispered before grinning. “But really, tell us about it.”
I sighed, leaned back in my chair, and let my spoon rest against the bowl’s edge. “He’s quiet . . . and kind of grumpy, but not in a jerk sort of way. I think he’s just slow to open up.”
Elliot tilted his head. “But he did open up.”
“You gotta pry ’em open, Mateo,” Mrs. H said. “Lube ’em up, use a finger, maybe two. Get ’em good and used to it before—”
