Page 225 of Coach
I was not chicken.
Not even a little.
Bok-bok, chimed in my head, my evil subconscious making its un-asked-for opinion heard.
Damn it.
I grabbed my phone and punched Mateo’s name before good judgement—or feathers—could stop me. It rang once, then again, then again. I was about to hang up when:
“Hey there, Mr. Woodsman.”
Mateo didn’t sound all jittery, like I felt.
“Hi,” I said, becoming eloquence personified.
“It’s good to hear your voice,” he said, and something foreign and warm tickled my skin.
“Uh, yours, too.” I felt like such a dumbass, sitting there in my shop, staring at unfinished furniture, seeing Mateo everywhere I looked, and feeling unable to put two thoughts, much less words, together.
“I had fun the other night,” he said, filling the silence.
“Yeah, me, too.”
There was a split second of silence, then he added, “I think the group liked you, but with them, it’s sometimes hard to tell. They attack everyone. At least it wasn’t the full gang. You might’ve run from the building if you’d had to face them all at once.”
“That’s good. I like them. They seem nice.”
Mateo snorted into the phone. “That’s a word. We’ll go with that. Sure.”
Another uncomfortable pause.
“So, I hate to cut this short, but I have a class coming in and—”
“I made you something.”
Mateo went silent.
“It’s nothing big, just, I don’t know, something.” I felt like a drowning man, grasping for anything to keep my head above water. “I, um, would really liketo see you again, you know, to give this to you.”
“I’d like to see you again, too, gift or no gift.”
My heart skipped a beat. He wanted to see me again. He actually wanted to—
His voice stopped my mental tangent. “We have our first pre-season scrimmage tonight or I’d say let’s meet up later. These games don’t matter that much, but this one’s against one of our archrivals. The kids are all worked up.”
“When’s the game?” I asked.
“Four o’clock. It’s early. We do scrimmages like that so the kids can get home at a decent hour. Games during the season don’t start until seven-thirty or eight.”
I grunted. “That makes for late nights.”
Mateo groaned. “After I deal with the parents and everything else, I don’t get home until after midnight some nights.”
“Huh,” was all I could think to say.
“Anyway, if you’re up for it, we can grab dinner after. I doubt we’ll play past six.”
“Sure. Sounds good.”
