Page 215 of Coach
And oh, yeah—Elliot was still standing.
Perfect.
Nothing screams “please don’t run away” like a giant, silent man glowering at your crush like a bouncer at a murder club.
I cleared my throat. “Shane, this is Elliot.”
The two of them stared at each other.
There was no handshake.
No smile.
Just pure, unblinking man-to-man ocular assessment.
It was like watching two jaguars meet at a wateringhole and silently agree to not eat each other—for now.
Then, simultaneously, they both did the nod. You know, the ’sup head bob—chin tilted upward, minimal expression, full of unspoken bro acknowledgment. A millisecond of nonverbal “I see you. I respect you,” and, given those two, “I could carry a refrigerator farther than you, too.”
Elliot grunted.
Shane gave the world’s tiniest eyebrow raise.
Apparently, that was enough.
“Wow,” Matty breathed from the booth, fanning himself with a laminated trivia sheet. “That turned me on more than it should’ve. I feel like I just watched porn with guys who collect swords.”
“It was like an Attila the Hun sex tape,” Omar muttered, shaking his head.
“I’d stream that!” Mike added.
I ignored them all and gestured toward the others in the booth. “Okay, Shane. That was Elliot. Now, starting clockwise: Mike you met at the fair, Omar, and the chaotic evil goblin on the end is Matty.”
“I am chaotic good, thank you very much,” Matty corrected, faux scowling across the table.
“Good to see you again, Shane.” Mike lifted his glass and smiled. “English teacher, trivia overlord, licensed pedant. I do not accept incorrect grammar,pineapple on pizza, or losing.”
“Also,” Omar added, “he once made a librarian cry during a Scrabble tournament.”
“She used an illegal Q word,” Mike said with zero remorse.
I moved on. “This is Omar.”
Omar gave a small wave. “Geography nerd, recovering theater kid, current baritone with the local gay men’s choir.”
“And Matty’s husband,” Mike supplied.
“Thank you, Mr. Publicist,” Omar said dryly.
Shane’s mouth twitched. I saw it. A twitch. On his face. Specifically, his mouth.
We weresoclose to a smile I could smell it.
“And finally,” I said, sighing, “thatis Matty.”
Matty leaned forward, eyes twinkling. “Hi, I’m your worst nightmare. I’m Mateo’s fashion consultant, emotional support gremlin, and the voice in his head that tells him to moisturize and make bad decisions, not in that order.”
“Ignore him,” I said. “Please.”
