Page 210 of Coach
“I’m a coach. Ialwayssweat!”
“You’re vibrating like a chihuahua on Red Bull,” Matty said cheerfully. “And you polished your glasses.”
Todd set down their drinks and leaned on the bar, amused. “This Shane guy better be worth the therapy you’re about to need.”
Matty raised his shot. “To crusty dreamboats and the fools who love them!”
Omar clinked glasses with him. “Amen.”
Todd hefted a shot glass filled with liquid sin and said, “To Plan B Bartenders if said crusty crashes and burns.”
I nearly choked. Todd winked and turned away.
Matty elbowed me, leaned in, and whispered, “Ooh, he’s tasty. Good Plan B!”
“He’s not my Plan anything!” I snapped, shook my head, then stared at the door and muttered, “Please don’t be scared off by the glitter jockstrap chandelier.”
Matty patted my leg. “If he is, he’s not the one.”
The door opened again, this time with zero fanfare. There was no whooshing entrance or dramatic flounce or shouted greeting, just two men stepping inside like they owned the place—and were maybe here to repossess it.
Elliot came in first: six-foot-a-lot, all shoulders and calm menace, like a mountain that tired of being walked on and learned to wear flannel. He was quiet, stoic, now bearded, and built like he could bend steel rebar just by glaring at it. Every time he showed up somewhere, it was like a giant exclamation point had just entered the room, but with no actual punctuation, just presence.
Then came Mike: five-foot-ten of hoodie-clad chaos, his hair already sticking up like he’d lost a fight with his pillow, glasses slipping down his nose, and an armful of laminated trivia folders under one arm like a dorky Moses delivering the commandments of obscure knowledge to the Chosen Gays.
As the pair made to join us, a group of guys stood and vacated a prime real-estate booth. Mike and Elliot pounced, turning and waving us over. I raised my glass in a final salute to Todd, then followed Matty and Omar to the booth.
“Oh good,” Mike said the moment he spotted us. “I see we’ve chosen violence tonight.”
He gestured at the glittering jockstrap chandelier above our table.
“I tried to warn you,” I said as we approached.
“No, you didn’t,” Mike replied. “You sent me a winking emoji and a gif of a man getting tackled shirtless.”
“That was the warning.”
Mike slid into the booth beside Omar and began unloading his folders like he was preparing to go to war. “Okay, team. We’re gonna run categories real quick before the quizmaster starts. Elliot, you’re still on sports and obscure eighties horror, right?”
Elliot grunted once. I think it meant “yes,” but it could’ve also meant “I lift tractors for fun.”
“Great,” Mike continued. “Omar, you’ve got geography and Broadway. Matty, you’re on celebrity scandals and fake names of Real Housewives. Mateo—”
“If you assign me math again, I will fake a seizure.” I groaned.
“You’re on mythology, pop culture, and obscure Roman emperors. But not Caligula. Never again.”
“That one time was not my fault.” I pouted.
“You said, and I quote, ‘He was just misunderstood and into orgies.’”
“Which is accurate!” I threw up my hands.
“God,” Matty said, fanning himself, “I love this team.”
Elliot had yet to say a word. He just folded himself into the end of the booth, his arms crossed over his chest like a steel sculpture commissioned by someone horny and minimalist. His eyes scanned the bar, landing on the TV showing shirtless rugby. He nodded once, approvingly.
“How’s the beer?” he asked, voice low enough to cause a minor earthquake.
