Page 216 of Coach
“Oh no,” Shane said, deadpan. “I like him.”
Matty squealed and fingertip clapped again. “Mateo, keep him, he’s perfect!”
“He hasn’t even sat down yet,” I muttered. “He could be an axe murderer.”
“But he passed the vibe check,” Mike said.
Elliot, who had reclaimed his seat, nodded once again. “I would’ve sensed evil in him when our eyes met. I have that superpower.”
I was about to make a snarky comeback when Shane locked eyes with Elliot again, then nodded once.
What the heck? Had something passed between them the rest of the world missed? Did they have ESPN?
Apparently, some metaphysical gavel had been struck, and Shane had been deemed worthy—with barely a few words spoken. Either my friends were the quickest judges of character on the planet, or they were useless in assessing men who might be axe murderers—or cuddle bears, or something in between.
Suddenly, there was a spot next to me in the booth again—like it had been waiting all along.
I gestured to it.
Shane slid in beside me without a word.
Elliot folded himself on Shane’s other side, their massive shoulders pressed together. Neither seemed to notice or care.
As the table dissolved into arguments about categories and who called dibs on Broadway, I caught the tiniest hint of warmth in Shane’s eyes as he looked around. Then—miracle of miracles—he turnedto me and said under his breath:
“They’re not so bad.”
I smiled.
“You haven’t seen them drunk yet.”
I panicked and ordered cheese fries.
“Fries, yes,” Mike said, nodding like a war general. “And wings. Dry rub. No blue cheese.”
“Two pitchers of beer,” Matty added, “and a round of tequila, because we’re professionals.”
“I want the sliders,” Omar said, flipping the menu like it offended him. “The ones that come with their own nuclear mushroom cloud of spicy heat.”
“You mean the Impossible Sliders,” Elliot grunted.
“God, he speaks in riddles,” Matty whispered, delighted.
Bartender Todd, who had reappeared at our table like a gay smoke genie, scribbled the orders without blinking, winked at Shane, and vanished again into the sweaty chaos of the bar.
Shane didn’t flinch.
Probably because nothing about this place couldtop what he’d already survived in life. Or because he’d gone catatonic. Either way, I chose to be impressed.
Then Matty leaned over the table, his evil pixie eyes gleaming with nosey intent.
“So, Shane.”
Here we go.Dread welled up in my chest.
“What do you do exactly? You build furniture, yes? Do you have an Instagram? Can you make me a headboard with LED lights and mounts for handcuffs?”
Omar chimed in, grinning. “And a sling. We need a four-poster bed that can handle the weight of a sling . . . and a grown-ass man . . . a naked, grown-ass man.”
