Page 207 of Coach
But there was nothing there.
Nothing but a sexy Italianwantingto see me, wanting me to meet his friends.
That had to mean something, right?
Chapter 17
Mateo
Ishould’ve turned around the moment I saw the disco ball shaped like a football.
That was my first thought as I pulled open the heavy front door of Jockstraps, the gayest sports bar in the South—and possibly the universe. The sign outside featured a neon jockstrap bouncing rhythmically over a pair of crossed baseball bats, and it was flashing in time to a beat I was almost certain came from a RuPaul remix of the Monday Night Football theme.
Inside, the place looked like the lovechild of an ESPN set and a drag brunch. Flat-screen TVs lined the walls, each broadcasting something different—hockey, gymnastics, a rerun ofThe Golden Girlswith Spanish subtitles, and a men’s diving competition that everyone seemed to be openly enjoying. Rainbow pennants hung between framed jockstraps signed by minor league baseball playersand one very confused Olympic fencer. Above it all spun the disco football, casting sparkles onto everything from the leather-lined bar stools to the massive oil painting of Cher in a referee outfit. For some unknown reason, the artist had given her Dolly Parton’s boobs.
What did gay men know of Cher’s boobs? Or Dolly’s? Or any woman’s, for that matter?
The air smelled like beer, nacho cheese, and horny ambition.
And I was twenty-nine minutes early.
“Whoa, fresh meat,” called a voice so deep it rattled my ribs.
I turned—and my knees threatened to rebel at what I saw.
Behind the bar stood a man who looked like he was sculpted from sex and protein powder. He was shirtless,obviously, with a leather harness crisscrossing his massive pecs and a whistle hanging from his neck like he might call a foul on my entire existence. His arms were the size of small countries, and his jawline could slice deli meat. Dirty blond hair was gelled back like he had a three o’clock modeling shoot and a four o’clock arm-wrestling championship. His name—written in Sharpie across his left pec—read: “Todd (really).”
“Uh,ciao,” I said. Eloquent. Shakespearean, even.
Todd gave me a once-over that started at my sneakers and ended somewhere around my soul. “Your accent’s fucking hot, but you look like you’re either about to cry or confess to a murder.”
“I—I’m here for trivia night,” I stammered.
He leaned forward on the bar, biceps bulging in ways that violated safety codes. “You early or just anxious?”
“Both probably. It’s kind of a date, too. Second one. New guy. You know?”
“Cute.” Todd grinned. “We don’t get the nervous academic type in this early. You gonna puke on me, teach?”
“No! God—no,” I said, even as my stomach considered filing for divorce.
He slid a frosty pint of something amber across the bar. “Drink this. It’ll help.”
“I didn’t order—”
“You looked like you needed it. First beer’s free if you show up alone and have resting panic face and an accent that makes me crave pasta.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is now. House rules.” He winked. “Drink up, cutie. You’re in Jockstraps now. Ain’t no shame, just games.”
I took a cautious sip—and choked.
“Ah,” Todd said. “Forgot to mention it’s an IPAbrewed in-house by our drag queen in residence. She calls it ‘Daddy Issues.’”
I coughed violently into my elbow. “It tastes like citrus and socks one of my players left in the locker room all season.”
“She’d be thrilled to hear that.” Todd smirked, somehow making even that tiny gesture sexy.
