Page 212 of Coach
“I’ve known them twelve minutes, and I’d die for all of them,” Omar whispered.
“I love this one,” Matty said, pointing at Omar, morphing into Bambi staring up at his mother.
I took another sip of Daddy Issues, and tried to calm my heart from the somersaults it was practicing.
Shane was going to walk into this circus any minute.
And I had no idea if he’d laugh . . .
Or run.
Chapter 18
Shane
Istepped just inside the door of Jockstraps, wondering if Mateo had invited me here as part of some elaborate psychological experiment or a queer frat initiation.
Overhead, a disco ball shaped like a football spun, casting kaleidoscope sparkles over a jockstrap display case and a life-size cardboard cutout of Jason Momoa wearing a whistle and very little else. A shirtless man in a harness and worn short-shorts roller-skated past me carrying a tray of nachos like this was all completely normal.
I blinked once.
So this is how I would die, surrounded by glitter and cheese.
The place looked like someone asked ChatGPT to “make me a gay Cheers,” then added a sports reference as an afterthought.
I took a slow, deep breath and resisted the very realurge to turn around and walk directly into traffic. To my left, a bachelor party was chanting something about “tight ends and looser morals.” To my right, two men were debating whether the hotness of Olympic gymnasts outweighed their height disadvantage in a theoreticalHunger Gamesscenario. I kind of wanted to hear that one play out. It was weird but intriguing.
I stood there for a moment, stone-faced, because that’s what I do. I’d walked into estate sales with more enthusiasm than I had in my soul, but I wasn’t leaving.
I was here for Mateo.
And I promised myself I’d try.
Besides, Stevie would kill me if I backed out now, and death-by-Stevie was worse than anything these queens could cook up.
Eventually, I spotted him.
Across the bar, packed into a red vinyl booth with four other guys, he looked like the sun had decided to wear charcoal gray and worry. One of the guys—a tiny tornado of a man with perfect hair—was half in Mateo’s lap. Another guy sat beside a scholarly-looking dude with folders spread out like they were war plans.
And then there was the fourth man. He was massive, bearded, and staring at a TV like he wascalculating whether he could body-slam a linebacker through the screen.
This was the cast of a Netflix show I hadn’t auditioned for.
From across the room, Mateo laughed at something. His face tilted up, cheeks flushed, as his hand fluttered like he couldn’t decide whether to shoo the guy off his lap or hug him tighter.
And then . . . he looked up.
His eyes met mine.
And something inside me cracked.
I felt it deep inside, where nothing should crack, where everything was supposed to be solid and impervious and impenetrable.
Whatever it was didn’t crack all the way.
Just a fracture.
A line forming like pressure building behind glass.
