Page 203 of Coach
But because I wasn’t sure he knew how.
The way he held himself, the way he measured every word like it might cost him something, the way his eye contact would be so steady and sure before flitting away like a rodent who’d just heard a cat hiss—it all screamed that someone taught him to be careful.
And careful people didn’t always know what to do with someone like me: someone who talked too much, who felt everything too loudly, who led with his heart even when it was bruised.
So yeah, there was a part of me—small but persistent—that whispered I was setting myself up for something I couldn’t finish. That maybe I’d fall and he’d watch, unable to catch me, not because he didn’t want to, but . . . because he didn’t know how.
I tossed my clipboard onto the bottom bleacher and slumped down beside it, pressing my palms into my eyes. Thinking about Shane made me feel a happiness, almost a giddiness, that I hadn’t felt in years. It was stupid. I barely knew the guy, and, shit, he’d barely said a few dozen words in the time we had spent together. Feeling anything for him was ridiculous.
I was being ridiculous.
But then I thought about the way he’d looked at me when I told him about coaching, the way his eyes softened, that he’d shown up at all.
That he’d texted back.
That he’d smiled, if only once.
That maybe—just maybe—he was trying . . . that hewouldtry.
I let out a slow breath, glanced at the rack filled with basketballs my boys had yet to touch, and madea decision.
Whatever this was, I was giving it a shot.
Because I’d rather stumble trying with someone real than stand while waiting for someone perfect.
And Shane Douglas, broody tank-top-wearing furniture wizard that he was, felt a hell of a lot like someone real.
Chapter 16
Shane
The sun cut through the slats of the workshop windows, slicing golden lines across the bench like it was trying to divide the day into manageable pieces.
It didn’t help.
I’d been standing in front of the lathe for over an hour, pretending I wasn’t glancing at the clock every eight minutes. The block before me was supposed to become round, perfectly round with clean grain.
I’d made six of them.
No, eight.
Every single one ended up in the discard pile.
One was too shallow. Another too warped or too busy or too plain.
My hand twitched on the gouge. The chisel caught, barked across the grain, and bit too deep.
Another ruined edge.
I swore under my breath and pulled the tool away.
“Wow,” came a familiar voice from behind me. “Is this an art installation, or are you starting a collection of round failures?”
I didn’t turn around. “Go away, Stevie.”
She didn’t. Of course.
I felt her nearing before I heard her boots echo across the floor. I glanced back. She stood behind me, arms crossed, silver rings clicking against her sleeves. Her eyeliner was heavier than usual—a strange shade of blue that somehow looked electric—and she’d paired her “Don’t Talk to Me Until I’ve Hexed You” sweatshirt with plaid pajama pants.
